After a winter that lasted six months and dropped to thirty below, the first warm day came like a gift I didn't know I was owed.
I was coming off my shift at the hotel, 7 AM, the sun already high and soft. The thermometer outside the lobby read sixty-four degrees.
On the counter sat a paper crown from a fast-food place, left behind by a kid who'd checked out with his family that morning. It was still creased, the yellow paint smudged.
I picked it up and held it for a long time. Seventeen years since my own kids wore those. They're grown now, far away in the city.
That evening, before my shift, I remembered it was the last day of my free trial for a streaming service I'd never opened. I let it expire without a second thought.
At midnight, I sat in the quiet lobby with that paper crown on the desk beside me. The heater didn't kick on for the first time in months.
I thought about how I've spent sixty-four years of winters waiting for the thaw, and how each time it feels like I've made it through something I wasn't sure I would.
The crown is still in my locker. I might wear it on the next warm day.