I promised her.” She nodded at the stone, at the angel.
Nick looked at the stone, then at the old woman, then back at the stone. He realized he couldn’t force her to leave. She’d die here before she gave up. “Alright,” he breathed. “What do I do?”
Eleanor looked at him, and for a second, something changed in her expression: surprise, then a deep, profound relief. “The right wing,” she said, pointing. “Right here. The feathers need more depth. See the lines? Follow them. Not too deep. Be gentle.”
Nick picked up the other chisel from the snow. The metal was so cold it felt like it was burning his skin. He took the mallet, its wooden handle worn smooth, and crawled closer to the slab. He positioned the flashlight so the beam hit the stone perfectly.
“Right here,” Eleanor leaned in, showing him. “Along the line. Light taps. Don’t force it.” Nick set the chisel to the granite and tapped. *Tink!* A tiny flake of stone flew off, revealing a pale streak.
“Good,” Eleanor encouraged. “Again. And right here, too.” They worked together: a middle-aged trucker and an eighty-year-old woman, carving a stone angel in the middle of a graveyard by the light of a flashlight and a dying candle. The storm roared around them.
Snow piled on their shoulders, melting from their body heat and soaking their clothes. Nick worked in silence, focused. His fingers went numb, then started to ache, but he didn’t stop. Eleanor guided him in a soft, fading voice.
“A little deeper there. No, to the left. Yes, that’s it.” Thirty minutes passed, maybe an hour. Time didn’t matter. Eleanor started talking, mostly to herself.
“I had to do the last part here,” she whispered. “Right next to her, on her birthday. I promised. You understand? I gave my word.” Nick set the chisel down and looked at her.
In the light of the flash, her face looked like wax—pale and drawn, but peaceful. “I understand,” he said hoarsely. Eleanor nodded and spoke again, even softer.
“You know, Nick,” she said, looking at the cross, “death isn’t the scary part. It really isn’t.” She turned to him. “It’s just a reunion with the people you loved.” Her voice was steady now.
“I’ll see my Sarah soon. I’ll tell her how much I missed her.” Nick swallowed, his throat tight. “And you, Nick,” Eleanor continued, “you take care of your family. A wife, a daughter—that’s the only thing that’s real.”
“Everything else is just smoke. The money, the job, the arguments—it’s all smoke.” She put her hand over his. Her palm was ice-cold and dry as parchment. “Hold them every day,” she whispered. “Tell them you love them. Don’t wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.”
Nick nodded, unable to speak. They went back to work. *Tink. Tink. Tink.* Another hour passed.
The candle in the jar finally sputtered out. The flashlight was the only thing left, illuminating the stone like an operating table. “It’s done,” Eleanor breathed. Nick set the tools aside and sat back.
The angel on the slab was breathtaking: a young face with soft features, wings spread wide, hands folded over its chest. Every line was a testament of love. Eleanor reached out and stroked the stone with trembling fingers.
“Forgive me, Sarah, for taking so long,” she whispered. “Now you won’t be alone. Happy birthday, baby.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.
Nick stood up, brushed the snow from his knees, and grabbed the edges of the slab. The stone was heavy, cold, and rough. “Help me,” he said. Eleanor stood up with great effort, leaning on the cross. Her legs were shaking like a newborn colt’s.
Together, they lifted the slab. Nick took most of the weight, Eleanor steadying the edge. They moved to the base of the cross and set the stone down carefully. The angel looked up at them, wings open, face serene.
Eleanor sank to her knees in the snow and kissed the cold granite. “I love you,” she whispered. “Always have. Always will.” Then her body went limp, her hands slipped, and she began to slump over.
Nick caught her before she hit the ground. She was a dead weight in his arms. “Eleanor!” he barked, shaking her gently. She opened her eyes, looked at him, and gave a faint smile.
“I finished,” she whispered. “Thank you, Nick.” Nick lifted her up. She weighed nothing—maybe ninety pounds, just skin and bone. He carried her toward the gate, leaving the flashlight behind. It didn’t matter.
He moved fast, stumbling through the drifts. Eleanor lay in his arms, wrapped in his coat, motionless. He reached the truck, opened the door, and laid her on the seat. He climbed in and slammed the door shut.
The heater was on full blast. The cab was hot, smelling of diesel and wool. Nick grabbed his thermos and poured the last of the lukewarm coffee. “Drink this,” he said, holding the cup to her lips.
Eleanor took a tiny sip and coughed. Another sip, and some color returned to her face. Her breathing evened out. Nick grabbed his phone and found Nancy’s number. It rang four times.
“Nick?” Nancy’s sleepy voice answered. “What’s wrong? What time is it?” “Nancy, listen to me,” Nick said, watching Eleanor. “I’m coming home. I’m bringing someone. Get the guest room ready and make some soup.” “What? Who?” Nancy was awake now. “Nick, are you drunk?”
“I’m sober,” he said. “Don’t ask questions, I’ll explain when I get there. I’ll be home in two hours.” “Nick, I don’t understand…” “Nancy,” he interrupted. “Trust me. Please.” A long pause. “Okay,” his wife sighed.
Nick hung up and looked at Eleanor. She was watching him, smiling. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded, put the truck in gear, and flipped on the lights.
The key turned in the lock with a familiar click. Nick had to jiggle it—the old lock was temperamental. The door swung open, and the warmth of the house hit them, smelling of roasted onions and cinnamon. It smelled like home.
It was just before dawn on January 7th. “Watch the step,” Nick said, holding Eleanor’s elbow. She stepped inside tentatively, gripping the doorframe.
The hallway was toasty. The radiators were clanking away. Nancy came out of the kitchen, her robe tied loosely, her hair a mess. She looked at her husband, then at the woman beside him, and her eyes went wide.
Eleanor looked rough: her coat was soaked, her scarf was crooked, and her face was pale with deep shadows under her eyes.
“Oh my goodness!” Nancy gasped, stepping forward. “Nick, what happened?”
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