Heavy snow slammed relentlessly against the windows of the old Montana farmhouse, turning the outside world into a white, unbroken blur.
The wind whistled and howled around the eaves, rattling loose shingles and carrying with it the mournful echoes of the frozen valley.
Icicles hung like jagged glass along the roofline, and snowdrifts pressed against the walls, making the house seem even smaller and more isolated.
Inside, seventy-eight-year-old Agnes Porter sat quietly in her favorite armchair, a steaming cup of chamomile tea warming her hands.
The porcelain mug felt heavy, almost grounding, as she inhaled its calming aroma.
Her life had been marked by decades of fierce Montana winters, of snowdrifts taller than fences and nights so dark that the stars seemed swallowed whole.
She had grown accustomed to solitude, and the stillness of her home had always been a comfort—a cocoon against the harshness of the storm.
The ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway and the crackle of the wood-burning stove created a rhythm she had learned to trust, a small measure of peace in a world that often seemed unforgiving.
But on this particular night, the comforting rhythm of her routine was shattered.
At first, she noticed a faint glow through the blizzard, a distant set of headlights struggling to pierce the swirling snow.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
