two rusted iron wings, one hanging off its hinges. Nick squeezed through and stepped inside.
The cemetery was a graveyard of shadows. The flashlight caught the headstones: tilted, moss-covered, some made of wood, others of crumbling marble. The fences were buckled, sinking into the ground.
The snow had leveled everything, turning the graves into a single white plain with crosses sticking out like the masts of sunken ships. The woods around the perimeter groaned, the pines swaying and snapping in the wind. Somewhere deep in the trees, a heavy branch cracked.
Nick stepped forward and immediately sank to his knees in a drift. “Eleanor!” he shouted. “Eleanor!” His voice was eaten by the wind. He kept moving, sweeping the light back and forth, but the sled tracks were gone, buried hours ago.
The place was huge, hundreds of graves. “Where are you?” he whispered. He searched for ten minutes, fifteen, shouting her name, checking the names on the stones, but most were illegible. Panic started to rise in his chest.
What if she’d collapsed? What if she was already buried under the drifts? Nick stopped, holding his breath. He heard the wind, the creak of the trees, the hiss of the snow. And then, something else. A faint, rhythmic sound.
*Tink. Tink. Tink.* Metal on stone. Nick bolted toward the sound, stumbling over hidden roots and iron railings. The flashlight beam danced wildly.
The sound got louder. *Tink. Tink. Tink.* Nick burst into a small clearing between the pines and froze. The light hit a scene that looked like a painting. By a small grave with a simple wooden cross sat Eleanor.
She was covered in white, looking like a human-shaped snowdrift. Her scarf was frozen stiff, her coat white with frost. Beside her, on the ground, sat a glass jar with a stub of a candle inside—a tiny, flickering flame fighting the wind. It was a miracle it was still lit.
The circle of light was no bigger than a dinner plate. In front of her lay the granite slab, grey and smooth. On it was the carving of an angel—beautiful, intricate work. The angel’s face was soft and young, its wings spread wide, every feather detailed.
Every line had been carved with love and pain. Eleanor held a chisel and a small mallet. One of her gloves was missing; her bare fingers were blue-red with cold. She was tapping the chisel, finishing the last details on a wing. *Tink, tink, tink.*
Nick shone the light on the cross. The name was faded but clear: *Sarah Elizabeth Thompson. 1968–1998.* Tools were scattered around the grave: another chisel, a file, a small brush. The sled was tied to a nearby fence, the sack empty.
Nick ran over, nearly tripping on a piece of rebar. “Eleanor!” he gasped. She flinched, turning slowly, as if waking from a dream.
Her eyes took a moment to focus. “Nick?” she whispered. “You… you came back?” Her voice was a dry rasp, barely audible over the gale.
Nick dropped to his knees beside her. The flashlight rolled away, illuminating the edge of the woods. “Good God, you’re freezing!” he cried, looking at her blue lips and the ice on her eyelashes.
Eleanor shook her head slowly. “No,” she said softly. “I’m finishing.” She pointed the chisel at the stone. “Right here.” Her fingers were shaking violently, but her grip was firm. “The last feathers. Just a few more. Almost there.”
Nick looked at the stone. The angel was nearly perfect; only a few feathers on the right wing needed the final touch. He looked at Eleanor—her exhausted face, her frozen hands, the sheer, unbreakable will in her eyes.
She was going to keep her promise. Nick swallowed hard, a lump the size of a fist in his throat. “Help me, Nick,” she pleaded, her eyes searching his. “Please. I have to finish.”
Nick’s heavy coat was off before he even thought about it. He wrapped it around her, tucking it tight. She tried to push it away with a weak hand. “No, Nick,” she whispered. “I have to finish the wing.”
“Just a little more. Maybe an hour.” Her voice was a ghost of a sound, her lips blue, but her eyes were like steel. Nick sat on his heels and looked her in the face.
“Eleanor,” he said, “you’re going to freeze out here.” “I won’t,” she shook her head, adjusting the chisel. “I have to. Don’t you see?
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