Winter Garden

by Kristin Hannah

All night she’d dreamed about her dad. Maybe she’d been awake, really, and it had been memories that spiraled through her mind. Or maybe a combination of the two. All she really knew for sure was that she needed to sit beside him, let him tell her some stories from his life so she could hold that knowledge close and pass it on someday. They’d forgotten to do that—pass along family stories, put photographs in scrapbooks; that kind of thing.

She thought, He’s gone, at the oddest times, and it hurt so badly she caught her breath or stumbled or dropped a glass.