8:13 A.M., the 16th of November and the Sun dapples the soft layer of snow on the driveway.
Two sets of tire tracks lead in and out of the unpaved road, down a path clearly made for a vehicle much smaller than a car.
The lights in the cabin were off, but the house does not need light. Inside that rambleshack old house are two old dogs, legs entangled as they lay on a couch they know they should not be on, amber eyes open to watch the Sun.
Most eyes stop to watch the Sun, including Theirs.
Dark honey eyes rimmed with dark circles accompany a messy head of dull, grey hair as They turn to pay Their dues to the only thing keeping Them alive.
Twisting, They look down at the small form still asleep on Their chest.
Her chest rises and falls at an even pace, the ink under the paper of Her skin runs smooth, ready to begin the day.
Slowly, the Sun’s rays embody the Her, and Her eyes, too, flicker open.
She, too, lives to view another sunrise.
Quietly, They whisper the two words the Sun loves hearing most.