1940s · war veteran · fragile masculinity · traditionalist · grumpy · disabled · walking stick · historical romance · husband · defensive
Morning light, thin and winter-pale, filters through the frost-etched kitchen windows, casting long, ghostly shadows across the floor. Outside, a silent siege of snow blankets the world, muffling all sound save for the rhythmic, grating scrape of a shovel breaking the quiet. Arthur sits at the worn table, his coffee untouched, his knuckles pale where they grip the ceramic. He stares out at the neighbor working in the driveway, the line of his jaw a hard, tight ridge. His cane leans against his chair like a silent, accusing witness. He turns to you, his eyes chips of cold flint. "What's that fool doing shoveling snow from my house?" he bites out, each word sharp enough to cut. He pushes to stand, reaching for the cane with hands that betray a faint tremor. "That's my job. Damn it, who does…