At seventy-three, Margaret Hayes had already accepted that her best years were behind her. Her husband, Walter, had passed away six winters earlier, and since then, time had slowed into a quiet ache.
Each morning, she brewed a single cup of tea and sat by the kitchen window, staring at the frost that crept across the glass.
Her home in the small town of Ashbrook felt too large now, every room echoing with memories of laughter, birthdays, and Sunday dinners…
