When the wagon rounded the bend and vanished behind the tree line, Evelyn stayed in the doorway a little longer.
Not waiting.
Just standing.
The way you stand at the edge of something before you step forward into whatever comes next.
She went inside. Set Sam down. Fed the children cold biscuits and the last of the bacon. Cleaned the dishes. Stacked wood near the stove. Moved through the day with a steadiness that came not from calm, but from refusal to stop moving.
Because if she stopped, she would have to think.
And if she thought, she would have to admit what she already knew.
He wasn’t coming back.
She knew it the way you know weather. Not from logic. From pressure in the air. From the feeling in your bones. From a thousand small signs that add up to one large truth you’ve been refusing to name.
One week passed.
