nodded.
Then she signed the answer he had taught her during their first week.
Enough.
But she changed it.
She pointed first at the letter.
Enough of the past.
Then at the chapel.
Enough fear.
Then she placed her hand against his chest.
Home.
Gideon covered her hand with his.
The snow fell silently around them.
Or almost silently.
Gideon suddenly tilted his head.
Rosalie noticed.
“What?”
He lifted one finger.
A church bell was ringing behind them.
Deep.
Slow.
The vibration rolled through the frozen evening.
Gideon’s expression became still.
“Bell,” he said.
Rosalie stared at him.
“You hear it?”
He closed his eyes.
The bell rang again.
His smile trembled.
“Little.”
Rosalie began crying.
Gideon laughed.
He pulled her against him while the bell continued over Coldwater.
Once, the sound of a gunshot had taken much of the world away from a nine-year-old boy.
Twenty-nine years later, he
