Part 7: “Winter Comes to Red Hollow Road”
The first snow arrived before Thanksgiving.
It came overnight, quiet and unhurried—coating the gravel road in a hush so thick even the birds seemed to pause. Laurel woke to the soft hush of flakes on glass and the sharp thrill of a world suddenly made new.
Sadie stood at the window in her pajamas, toes curled against the cold floor, her breath fogging the pane.
“Shadow’s never seen snow,” she whispered.
Laurel, still warm from sleep, stepped beside her and wrapped an old quilt around both their shoulders.
“Maybe he has,” she said softly. “Just not like this. Not with you.”
Outside, Shadow sat on the porch like a statue, nose tipped toward the falling sky. He didn’t bark. Didn’t flinch. Just watched it all with the quiet reverence of something ancient.
The days grew short.
Mornings were slower, full of mismatched socks and oatmeal steam and mittens that always lost their mates. Shadow learned to walk beside Sadie in the snow without pulling—his paw prints flanking hers like quotation marks in the white.
On weekends, Laurel taught Sadie how to make her mother’s old cornbread stuffing recipe, scribbled in smudged pencil on a coffee-stained index card. They burned the first batch. The second came out perfect.
“You’re turning into a real Jenkins,” Laurel said, kissing her forehead.
Sadie beamed.
Shadow snuck a bite off the counter and didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.
On the last day before winter break, Laurel waited at the end of the drive like she always did now.
The bus groaned to a halt, and Sadie hopped down in her red boots and oversized coat. She didn’t run straight to the house this time.
Instead, she pulled something out of her backpack: a construction-paper certificate taped to a candy cane.
“Guess what?” she said, eyes shining. “I got ‘Most Kind.’”
Laurel bent to read the shaky handwriting at the bottom.
For helping Kevin tie his shoes and reading to Lila and always sharing her crayons.
Laurel looked at Sadie. “I’m so proud of you.”
Sadie grinned. “You think Grandma would be, too?”
Laurel swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
“She always was.”
That night, they pulled the Christmas box from the attic.
It was smaller than Laurel remembered. Just one box with a handful of ornaments, a string of half-working lights, and an angel made from a spoon and yarn hair.
Sadie unwrapped each one like it was treasure.
“This one’s weird,” she said, holding up a felt mitten with a lopsided dog stitched onto it.
Laurel laughed. “I made that in fourth grade. It’s supposed to be Shadow’s great-grandpappy.”
Sadie giggled. “He has the same face.”
Shadow lifted his head at the sound of his name but did not refute the claim.
They hung it front and center.
On Christmas Eve, Laurel let Sadie stay up late
They drank hot cocoa too close to bedtime and listened to old carols on the radio. Sadie curled up against Laurel on the couch, head heavy on her shoulder, a soft snore just beginning to escape.
Shadow lay at their feet, tail flicking now and then in response to some dream he wouldn’t remember.
Laurel looked down at the child in her arms.
Not just hers on paper now, but in every way that mattered.
Every day she’d feared was too late…
Every letter she hadn’t written…
Every hour Sadie had walked home alone…
None of it could be changed.
But this—this moment—was hers to keep.
She leaned her cheek against Sadie’s head and whispered into the hush of the house:
“Merry Christmas, baby girl.”
And Shadow, as if in agreement, let out a sigh so deep it felt like an amen.