The cold hits differently when you’re old, but it hits even harder when you’re alone. My wife, Ellen, passed away five years ago, taking all the warmth out of this old farmhouse with her. We bought this place when we were just starting out, back when my back was strong and my hands didn’t shake.

The house is heated entirely by a large cast-iron wood stove in the center of the living room. For forty years, cutting, splitting, and stacking cordwood was just a part of my autumn routine. It was hard work, but it was honest work. I used to enjoy the rhythm of it, the sharp thwack of the maul coming down on a tough piece of oak, the smell of fresh sawdust hanging in the crisp October air.

But things change. Time is a thief, and illness is its accomplice. I’m seventy years old now, and my kidneys are failing me. Every Tuesday and Friday, I make the long, exhausting drive into town for dialysis. The machine cleans my blood, but it drains my spirit and leaves me physically wrecked for the rest of the day.

The simple thought of picking up an eight-pound splitting maul feels like climbing a mountain. I simply don’t have the strength anymore. That first autumn after Ellen died, I ordered a load of logs dropped off in the driveway, staring at the massive pile with a heavy heart.

I had no idea how I was going to get it split and stacked before the snow flew. I figured I would try to chip away at it, maybe one or two logs a day, or swallow my pride and hire someone from town. But I never had to make that choice.

One Tuesday in late October, I came home from the dialysis clinic, my arm bruised and my body aching.

I pulled into the driveway and put the truck in park, blinking hard because I thought my exhausted eyes were playing tricks on me. The mountain of uncut logs was gone.

In its place, perfectly split and meticulously stacked against the side of the shed, was my entire winter’s supply of wood. A heavy blue tarp was secured over the top, tied down tightly to protect it from the moisture. I stood in the driveway for a long time, looking around the empty yard.

I called my closest neighbors, Frank and Gary, fully expecting one of them to casually admit to doing me a favor. Both of them seemed genuinely baffled. They swore up and down they hadn’t been on my property. The next year, the exact same thing happened.

I ordered the logs, went to treatment, and came home to find the job perfectly finished. Year three and year four followed the exact same pattern. It was always in October, always done with precision, and always anonymous. It became this incredible, haunting mystery.