“But you didn’t run that light,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm.

He looked at me, a tear finally spilling over his cheek.

“I want you to know something,” I whispered, my own eyes wet.

“Thomas was a good man. He loved this house. And he would have hated seeing me struggle with the snow.”

I took the green woolen scarf from my neck and held it out to him.

“He used to wear this when he shoveled,” I said.

Leo looked at the green wool like it was something sacred.

“Take it,” I said.

He reached out and took the scarf, wrapping it around his neck.

“Now, sit down and finish your coffee,” I said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table.

He sat.

We didn’t talk about the accident anymore.

We talked about his school, his mother, and how the Indianapolis Colts were doing this season.

Outside, the snow kept falling, but inside, the kitchen was warm.

That was three weeks ago.

Yesterday, we had another big storm, but this time I didn’t stay inside.

I watched from the kitchen window as Leo cleared the walk, wearing the green woolen scarf.

When he was finished, he didn’t sneak away into the dark.

He walked up the steps, knocked on the door, and came in for his breakfast.

My hip still hurts when it rains, and the house is still quiet.

But the walk is clean, and for the first time in eight years, I don’t feel entirely alone.