The last wagon left like a slow apology.
Its wheels chewed the frozen ruts and complained the whole way down the ridge, as if the mountain itself wanted to be rid of it. Daniel Mitchell stood in the doorway of his cabin with his hands hanging at his sides, bare despite the cold, and watched the newest bride disappear behind the pines.
Seven weeks.
Seven versions of the same ending, each one stitched with a different excuse. The air is too thin. The nights are too quiet. I didn’t know you meant… all of this. Some cried. Some yelled. One spat near his boots like she could poison the ground and blame him for the taste.
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