Noah set the letter down on the table, beside the empty cup, exactly where he had found it.
Then he went outside.
The breeze was still blowing. The wheat still swayed. Somewhere in the hedges, the same bird was still singing, as though beings breaking the path above existence and leaving countless to freeze were a story about somewhere else. This little farm had kept on being a farm through all of it.
He stood on the doorstep for a while and looked at the garden.
The row at the end had gone wild. Weeds had crept in among the greens, tall and tangled, as weeds always do when a garden is left alone. The beans had climbed past the tops of their poles and were waving loose in the air. A few apples had fallen in the orchard and lay in the grass, going soft.
Noah walked down the path to the fence, picked up the old hoe leaning against it, and turned it over in his hands.
Smooth wood. Dark where hands had held it. Heavier than it looked.
He smiled a little.
