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"Christmas lights," he had said. "Dad did the whole drive. Half a mile. Every year."

"Why?"

Cash had shrugged. "Because he was crazy."

Big John had strung those lights alone.

Posts every twenty feet. Half a mile down the drive. Porch. Tree. Whatever else a silent man did to turn one night into an invitation.

Maybe it had been the clearest thing he knew how to say.

Come home.

Then, after a pause, Cash had said: "Whole valley came Christmas Eve."

I had heard the part he did not say.

Not last year.

Last Christmas had been two months after the funeral. The boxes remained sealed. The drive stayed dark. Nobody opened the house and filled it with wet boots, food, children, neighbors, and noise.

The boxes sat beneath my light.

I touched the heavy letters on CHRISTMAS — DRIVE.

Dust coated my fingertips.

The ranch held grief in practical places.

A coat left in the barn for Biscuit.

A desk drawer.

A mortgage hidden in paper.

Three boxes behind spare panels.

I did not open them.

That was not my decision.

Instead, I stayed on my knees with the flashlight beside me.

The ladder creaked.

Not Biscuit. Too much weight.

Boone's head appeared above the loft floor, then his shoulders. He climbed through the opening and stopped, groaning as he tried to fold himself into the cramped space.

His eyes went to me. Then the boxes. He did not speak.

I did not either.

The last daylight came through the loading door behind him, outlining his body in gray-blue. Dust turned slowly between us.

Boone crossed the loft and sat beside me on the floor, hunched. His knee touched mine.

The boxes rested in front of us.