My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

His voice carried the wide vowels of rural Alberta, softened by age and restraint. He did not offer condolences right away, and for that I liked him immediately. Some griefs do not need fresh handling every five minutes.

“You knew my husband well?” I asked.

“Well enough to know he was the sort of man who checked every gate twice and never asked anybody to do a job he wouldn’t do himself.” Ellis glanced toward the stalls. “He talked about you often.”

That undid me more than it should have. Widows become greedy for ordinary details. Not declarations. Not grand final messages. Simple continuities. He asked about the weather. He hated store-bought pie crust. He fixed a loose hinge himself because he thought the contractor was overcharging. He talked about you.

Ellis must have seen something shift in my face because his own expression softened.

“The black one there,” he said, nodding toward the Friesian, “that’s Midnight. Your husband spent near six months tracking him down through a breeder outside Edmonton. Said you once loved a painting of a horse looked just like him.”

I laughed once, quietly, in disbelief.