The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting a yellow glow over the frosted lawn.

“Are you going to be sad that your truck is gone?” Emma asked.

“A truck is just a machine,” I said.

“I’d trade the market building itself to have you sitting right here.”

The front door opened, and Eleanor stepped out holding two mugs.

Steam rose from the hot chocolate into the cold night air.

“Your room is ready, Emma,” Eleanor said.

“I put your mother’s photo album right on the nightstand.”