The winter held.
Not with drama, not with blizzards or calamity, but with a steady grip that forced everything to slow just enough to be felt. Snow fell twice in Shropshire that week, light and dry, more nuisance than danger. The wires sagged slightly under it, then shed it by midday as the sun climbed. Men cursed, brushed gloves together, and went back to work.
Phillip let them.
He did not push.
That, more than anything, marked the change.
The next morning began later than usual. Phillip woke not to the sounder clicking, but to Henry knocking on the door with a knuckle instead of urgency.
"You're still asleep," Henry said when Phillip opened it.
"Then today is already a success," Phillip replied.
Henry stepped inside, stamping snow from his boots. "Don't get used to it."
