“Fool.”
“He thought shame made me controllable.”
Caleb folded letter.
“It almost did.”
Clara nodded.
“Almost.”
Then threw it into stove.
Caleb watched it burn.
“Feel better?”
“No.”
“Why burn?”
“Needed kindling.”
He laughed.
That was enough.
Caleb died at eighty.
Quietly.
No storm.
No heroic accident.
He spent final year weaker than either liked.
Clara cared for him without turning him into child.
He hated being helped into chair.
She hated watching him hate it.
One evening they sat on porch.
Same bench replaced twice over decades.
Frozen lake below.
Caleb wore heavy blanket.
Clara held coffee.
He looked at her.
“You still think I’m handsome?”
She gasped.
“Fishing.”
“Answer.”
“Terrifyingly.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
After a while:
“Clara?”
“Yes?”
“You ever regret?”
“What?”
“Staying.”
She turned.
His eyes were serious.
“No.”
“Not once?”
“I regretted your snoring.”
“Lies.”
“Your boots.”
“Fair.”
“Your inability to admit when roof needed replacing.”
“Roof was fine.”
“Rain inside kitchen.”
“Ventilation.”
She laughed.
Then took his hand.
“No.”
“I never regretted staying.”
Caleb looked toward mountains.
“Good.”
Clara rested head against his shoulder.
“You?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“I regretted not kissing you sooner.”
She smiled.
“You waited four days.”
“Wasted time.”
“You were being decent.”
“Overrated.”
She laughed.
He looked at her with same expression he had all those years earlier.
Wanting.
Gentle.
Amazed.
“Clara?”
“Yes?”
“I still can’t control myself when you look at me like that.”
Her eyes filled.
“Your hands?”
“Perfect control.”
“Wanting to kiss you?”
“Hopeless.”
Clara leaned closer.
“Then stop fighting.”
He kissed her.
Their last kiss was not that night.
There were many more.
But Clara remembered it because for one moment age disappeared.
The mountain man.
The cursed widow.
Snow.
Coffee.
Bench.
All still there beneath years.
Caleb died in spring with Clara beside him.
His last clear words:
“Stay.”
She held his hand.