"Night is always deepest in winter," she reminded herself.
Each night, motions set steady to the grandfather clocks arithmatic ticks, she'd tie the curtains and pull the blinds. Then she'd light the candle, watch it flicker. Inside the halo of yellow gloom, the moon would wane among treetops, stars would dance back into their little black holes. Wind would whisper it's wail into a crescendo, startling a school blackbird and rattling the tin roof.
Still, she would stand there, lady in a black dress. Hands tied into each other like little keys, stiff fingers a steeple to hold invisible things...the words of her dead grandmother, syllables from songs some old lover used to sing. Lonely each night, she'd speak to the ghosts behind her eyes, wish with all her might one might come back alive.
Then she'd fall asleep against the memories of Frost, reimagining herself in that snowy wood, wishing she were brave enough to venture beyond well-lit paths and window panes.