The morning did not arrive all at once.
It crept in through small sounds and gradual light, through the way the cold shifted from sharp to dull, through the smell of woodsmoke returning as fires were stirred back to life across the yard. Phillip woke to it without urgency, the kind of waking that did not involve reaching for a list of tasks before his eyes fully opened.
For a moment, he did nothing.
The bed was warm. The house was quiet. The sounder did not announce itself from the next room. That alone marked the day as different.
When he finally rose, it was with the unhurried movements of someone who did not expect to be interrupted. He dressed more carefully than usual, choosing clean clothes rather than the nearest ones, brushing snow from his boots before pulling them on. Outside the window, the yard lay untouched except for a single set of footprints crossing toward the gate—someone early, but not many.
Christmas morning.
