The wind was howling, curtainless windows blanketed with snow. White lace faded to yellow in candle-light, almost beautiful, almost frost. The old lady at the table sat with knees together, politely tucked away, hands tearing crumbs from the last loaf of bread as she lifted them slowly to her mouth.
Many settlers died that winter.
Young hikers in bright modern parkas and boots ran to the cabin with glee. “Here it is! Just like in the photograph. Grandpa left Grandma behind and he never made it back, never forgave himself.”
Then they buried her bones, eating sandwiches over the grave.