He kicked the snow off his boots on the porch and pushed open the door. The heat from the iron stove hit him like a physical wave. He stripped off his frozen outer layers and poured a mug of coffee, his hands shaking not from the cold, but from the adrenaline.

Elias opened his eyes. The fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He was not asleep yet. He pushed himself off the stone. He didn't need to see the path; he needed to feel it. He knew the slope of the land, the way the water would drain.

He found the marker stone half-buried in the rapidly accumulating drift. He knelt to brush it off, his glove stiff with cold. There. The line was drawn. The property ended here; the wild began.

Winter began when the world went quiet.