“Right here!” she said suddenly. “Please, stop!” Nick braked, peering into the dark. To the right, he saw the silhouette of iron gates and crooked headstones. Oak Ridge looked abandoned—no lights, no houses for miles, just woods, snow, and the dead.
“Wait a minute,” Nick said, confused. “You said you were going to your daughter’s!” “I am,” Eleanor confirmed, pulling on her mittens. A chill that had nothing to do with the heater went down Nick’s back as the meaning hit him.
“Ma’am, you can’t be serious,” he stammered. “Out here alone, in a storm, at a graveyard? You’ll freeze!” “I won’t,” she argued calmly. “It’s not far. Just a hundred yards in.” She opened the door, and the icy wind roared into the cab.
“Eleanor, wait!” Nick grabbed her sleeve. “This is dangerous. Let’s wait until morning.” She looked at him, and there was no fear in her eyes, only a quiet, unshakable resolve.
“Sarah would have been fifty-seven today,” she said softly. “I promised her. I have to finish it.” “Finish what?” Nick asked, but she was already out. He jumped down, helped her unload the sled, and the sack clinked again—heavy and metallic.
Eleanor gripped the rope with both hands and began to pull, the plastic runners screeching against the frozen crust. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Nick asked, his conscience gnawing at him. “I’ll be fine,” she nodded. Then she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a worn, yellowed envelope.
The edges were frayed. “Read this when you have a moment,” she said, handing it to him. “I wrote it last night, knowing I might not make it back.” Nick took it mechanically; the paper felt rough and warm from her pocket.
“I wanted someone to know my story. I knew someone would pick me up, and I wanted them to have it.” Her voice cracked just once, a tiny fracture in her composure. “Eleanor!” he started, but he didn’t know what to say.
She gave a weak smile, turned, and began hauling the sled toward the gate. Her figure was swallowed by the white wall within seconds. Nick stood by his truck, clutching the envelope, the wind whipping his jacket. He looked at the cemetery—darkness and stone—then at the letter, then back at the dark.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, climbing back into the cab. The heater hummed, pushing back the cold. Nick tossed the envelope on the passenger seat, put the truck in gear, and kept driving.
But his gut was twisting. It felt like a hook in his neck, pulling his thoughts back: an eighty-year-old woman, alone in a graveyard, in a blizzard. *Sarah would have been fifty-seven. I promised her.* Nick gripped the wheel. He had a schedule. He had a boss waiting. He had a wife who was mad about the bills.
The envelope sat there like a silent accusation. The engine roared, eating up the miles, but one thought kept looping: *What if she doesn’t come back?* The letter sat there, quiet as a sleeping cat you’re afraid to wake up.
Nick glanced at it for the third time in ten minutes. Twenty miles down the road, the storm was getting worse. The wipers were on high, but the snow was winning. He tried to think about the late fees, about Nancy’s face, but it wouldn’t stick.
Eleanor’s voice was stuck in his head like static. Up ahead, he saw the lights of a truck stop—a big 24-hour place with a diner. Nick pulled in, parked by the pumps. His tank was half empty, and he didn’t want to risk the next stretch without a top-off.
He stepped out, and the air bit into his lungs. He fueled up quickly, his fingers numbing even through his work gloves. Inside the diner, it was crowded with other drivers waiting out the weather. It smelled of burnt coffee, grease, and damp wool.
Nick bought a sandwich and a coffee to go. Back in the cab, he saw the sky had turned an even deeper shade of bruised purple. The visibility was down to almost nothing.
“Hell of a night,” Nick muttered, climbing back into the warmth. He shook the snow off his coat, took a sip of the scalding coffee, and leaned back. The wind rocked the heavy trailer, a low, mournful howl against the metal.
Comments are closed.