That winter, the settlement disappeared from the map.

Before dawn, she found a man lying in the snow outside her house.

His coat had frozen hard.
There was blood at his side.

No papers.
No name.
Barely a pulse.

She pulled him inside and laid him beside the fire.

For three nights, she kept the fire burning, warmed water and changed the cloth over his wound.

On the second night, he woke.

His hands were shaking too badly to hold a cup.

She held it for him while he drank.

When he finished, he looked at her for a moment.

Neither of them spoke.

She stayed beside him until he fell asleep again.

On the fourth morning, the bed was empty.

Outside, a single line of footprints crossed the yard and vanished into the white.

For years, whenever the first snow came, she thought of him.

Then one winter, she didn’t.

Decades later, an envelope arrived.

Inside was a photograph.

The man stood surrounded by children.

One of them was holding his hand.

On the back:

You gave them their father.