Inside, she could stand and transfer with appropriate stable supports, though walking even short distances required time and effort. She'd brought a wide portable support frame and several practical adaptations in her sleigh, designed by a wheelwright she trusted, and I repaired the damaged pieces as soon as I could.
When the weather permitted, we positioned her near the wide doorway so she could enjoy fresh air without negotiating the icy yard.
She hated being confined.
I understood that better than most.
After decades spent riding across open country, I would have gone half mad if someone told me the world beyond my door was suddenly inaccessible.
So we planned small improvements.
I leveled the threshold.
Built a short, sturdy ramp.
And cleared a sheltered path to a broad wooden platform overlooking the valley.
Josephine contributed suggestions that saved me from making several foolish mistakes.
She wanted enough room to turn safely.
A railing placed where she could reach it.
And a seat she could use without worrying about unstable construction.
I did the carpentry.
She directed the details.
We argued about nearly every measurement.
And somehow, by the end of February, we'd built something that made both of us proud.
The first time she sat outside beneath the pale winter sun, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
"There's nothing like mountain air," she whispered.
I stood beside the railing.
"Usually tastes like cold pine needles."
She laughed.
Then looked toward the distant peaks.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally, she whispered, "I forgot how beautiful the world could be."
I turned toward her.
Something in her voice made me wonder what she'd endured before reaching my cabin.
But she was watching the mountains with a quiet expression I didn't want to disturb.
So I stayed beside her.
And for the first time in twenty years, silence didn't feel lonely.
Josephine told me pieces of her past slowly.
She'd grown up in a river settlement called Briar Hollow, where her father repaired wagon wheels and her mother taught local children to read. Both died while she was young, leaving her under the care of relatives who treated their responsibility as an inconvenience.
She learned early that people could be generous in public and cruel in private.
Some considered her body a burden.
Others spoke about her as though she couldn't hear.
She endured comments about how much space she occupied, what she ate, how she dressed, and whether anyone would ever want to marry her.