He smiled faintly.
"I remember."
"But that isn't why I fell in love with you."
He looked at her.
She continued.
"I fell in love with you because you noticed I needed help when everyone else was laughing."
Samuel's expression softened.
"And because you never once made me feel ashamed for accepting it."
She squeezed his fingers.
"Why would I do that to you now?"
His eyes filled.
Clara kissed his hand.
"You've spent your life caring for people."
She leaned closer.
"Let us care for you."
Samuel looked down.
For a long moment, he struggled with the idea.
Then he nodded.
"All right."
Clara smiled.
"Good."
He raised an eyebrow.
"But I'm still supervising that roof."
She laughed.
"Naturally."
As Samuel grew older, his world became smaller.
He no longer traveled far into the mountains.
Rarely rode horseback.
Stopped climbing ladders.
And gradually handed responsibility for the farm to Annie's family.
At first, he feared the changes would leave him useless.
But Clara found new ways for him to remain involved.
He taught children how to repair tools.
Showed young farmers how to recognize dangerous weather.
Helped Annie's sons maintain equipment.
And spent long afternoons carving small wooden animals for the children who visited.
His hands were still skilled.
Even when they trembled.
One winter, he made a little horse for a boy who had lost his father.
The boy accepted it solemnly.
Then asked, "Why does it have one ear smaller than the other?"
Samuel examined the carving.
"Because I made a mistake."
The child looked worried.
"Can you fix it?"
Samuel smiled.
"I could."
"Will you?"
He considered.
Then shook his head.
"No."
The boy frowned.
"Why?"
Samuel placed the horse gently in his hands.
"Because sometimes something can be worth keeping even when it isn't perfect."
The child studied the horse.
Then smiled.
"I like it."
Samuel nodded.
"So do I."
Clara watched from the kitchen doorway.
She thought about all the years Samuel had spent trying to repair what his father had broken.
All the years he believed he had to become strong enough, good enough, useful enough to balance some invisible debt.
And now, near the end of his life, he had finally learned to let imperfect things remain worthy of love.
Including himself.
The winter Samuel turned seventy-five was unusually severe.
Snowstorms swept through the mountain valleys.
The road to Blackwood became impassable for days at a time.
The old cabin creaked beneath the weight of snow.
And the stone fireplace burned almost constantly.
Samuel spent most afternoons in his favorite chair near the window.
Clara sat beside him with her recipe book.
Sometimes she read aloud.
Sometimes he told stories.
Sometimes they simply watched the snow.
One afternoon, Samuel asked her to read the recipe for beef ribs.