The next morning, it was back.
Exactly where Lydia had found it.
The mountain changed Silas slowly.
Or perhaps Silas changed the mountain.
Lydia began noticing things.
A rail appeared beside the back steps after she nearly slipped carrying kindling.
A stool appeared near the stove because standing too long made her back ache.
Silas started leaving the water bucket half full instead of filled to the top.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He shrugged.
“You’re carrying enough.”
He never mentioned her pregnancy more than necessary.
Yet every time she stumbled, he appeared.
Every time she climbed onto a chair, his jaw tightened.
And when she announced she intended to help bring firewood from the shed, he looked at her as if she had suggested wrestling a bear.
“You’re not lifting logs.”
“I am pregnant, Silas.
Not made of glass.”
“Same difference if you fall.”
“That isn’t remotely the same difference.”
“Still no.”
“You aren’t my husband.”
The words escaped before Lydia could stop them.
Silence.
Silas’s face closed.
Lydia’s stomach sank.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
He walked outside.
He stayed there nearly an hour.
That night they barely spoke.
Three days later, Lydia found the cradle.
It was in the storage shed beneath an old canvas.
Small.
Hand carved.
Dusty.
Beautiful.
Tiny pine trees had been cut into the headboard.
Lydia brushed her fingers over them.
Behind her, a voice said—
“Put it back.”
She turned.
Silas stood in the doorway.
His face had become stone.
“I’m sorry.
I was looking for potatoes.”
“Potatoes are in the cellar.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.”
Lydia lowered the canvas.
Then she saw something she had missed.
Two initials were carved beneath the headboard.
A.C.
She looked at Silas.
He was already walking away.
She didn’t ask.
But that night, as the fire burned low and Silas sat sharpening his hunting knife, Lydia finally said, “Who was she?”
The blade stopped.
For a long time he did not answer.
“My wife.”
Lydia’s heart tightened.
“Anna?”
His eyes lifted.
“The initials.”
Silas nodded.
“She was expecting.”
Lydia understood before he continued.
“She went into labor during a storm.
Early.”
His voice was flat.
Too flat.
“I couldn’t get her down the mountain.
Couldn’t get anyone up.”
Lydia’s hand instinctively moved to her belly.
Silas saw it.
His jaw tightened.
“They both died before morning.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“How can I not be?”
“Wasn’t your doing.”
“That doesn’t mean I cannot be sorry.”
Silas looked into the flames.
“I buried them together.”
The sentence broke something inside Lydia.
She understood then.
The rail.
The stool.
The lighter water bucket.
His anger when she climbed.
His terror disguised as irritation.
Silas wasn’t afraid of her pregnancy.
He was afraid the mountain would take another mother and child from him.
