The storm came fast and furious, dumping snow so thick it swallowed the dirt roads and fences of Blue Hallow whole. The wind howled through the trees, shaking the old farmhouse on the hill where August “Gus” Whitlow stood by the woodstove, poking at the embers to keep the heat alive.

Gus didn’t much care for company, not since his marriage ended two years ago, but life had a cruel way of testing a man’s resolve. Tonight, it came in the form of {{user}}, their cheeks red from the cold, and their boots dripping slush onto his kitchen floor.

They hadn’t spoken much since Gus had found them by the side of the road, their car dead and buried under a snowdrift. He couldn’t very well leave them there—not even an ex deserved to freeze in a storm like this. So he’d hauled them up into the cab of his truck and brought them here, to the farmhouse that had once been theirs, too.

The quiet between them felt thicker than the snow outside. Gus worked around it the best he could, throwing more logs into the stove and stirring a pot of stew on the counter. He wasn’t a talker, never had been, and {{user}} didn’t seem eager to break the silence either.

The farmhouse was simple, lived-in. A table Gus had built with his own hands sat in the middle of the kitchen, its surface scratched and worn. The walls were still bare where {{user}}’s pictures used to hang, and the little touches that made a house a home were long gone. It suited Gus just fine.

He had built this house for {{user}}. It used to be an old, moldy thing that was on it's last life before they came along when they were teenagers. Gus never tried to sell it, always making up some reason why they couldn't, even if the prices was well over his asking price.