It started overnight—the kind of storm that doesn’t ask permission.

By morning, the world had been rewritten.

You opened the door and stopped, not because you didn’t expect snow, but because of how much of it there was. The familiar shapes of the driveway, the fence, even the yard itself had softened into something unrecognizable. And there, where the Subaru should have been—reliable, practical, always ready—was a rounded white mound, like the storm had decided to tuck it in for the winter.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Guess we’re doing this.”

This wasn’t Truckee. You reminded yourself of that. Eight winters there had taught you what real snow looked like—walls of it, days of it, the kind that made digging out less of a chore and more of a lifestyle. Here in Horny Hollow, you usually got a break. A pause between storms. Time to catch up, clear out, breathe.

Not this time.

The snow kept falling, steady and unapologetic, as if it had somewhere to be and wasn’t about to slow down for you. The garage stood half-open behind the curtain of flakes, tools waiting like they knew what came next.

You stepped out anyway.

The first step sank deep—deeper than expected. Cold rushed in around your boots, crisp and immediate. You tested another step, then another, carving the beginning of a path not just through the snow, but into the task ahead.

Shovel first. Always shovel first.

There’s a rhythm to it. Scoop, lift, toss. Again. Again. The sound is its own kind of quiet—snow landing softly, breath steadying, the world narrowing to the space right in front of you. It’s work, sure. But it’s honest work. The kind that asks everything of your body and nothing of your mind beyond the next motion.

Eventually, the snowblower joins in—louder, more forceful, turning drifts into flying arcs of white. Progress becomes visible then. A line cleared. A shape returning. The buried Subaru slowly reemerging, like it had been waiting patiently the whole time.

You pause for a second, leaning on the shovel, looking out across what you’ve done—and what’s left.

Snow still falls.

But now there’s a path.

And that’s enough to keep going.