"You are cold."

Margaret stood in the hallway. The air smelled of wet wool and old dust. She held a shawl in her hands. It was grey. It was heavy. It had been her mother’s. Now it was hers. Now it was no one’s.

Thomas sat on the chair by the fire. He did not look up. His head was bowed. His hands were still. They were white. They were shaking.

"I am cold," he said. His voice was a whisper. It was thin. It was dry.

"Then put it on."

Margaret stepped closer. She held the shawl out. She offered it to him. He did not take it. He looked at the fabric. He looked at the fringe. He looked at the small, dark stain near the hem. It was not wine. It was not blood. It was something else. It was the color of the earth after rain.

"It is not for me," Thomas said.

"It is for the house," Margaret said. "It is for the walls. It is for the silence."

Thomas laughed. It was a short sound. It was bitter. "The walls do not freeze. Only I do."

Margaret sat on the floor. She sat between his feet. She pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped herself in nothing. She felt the cold in her bones. She felt it in her teeth.

"The doctor said it was the winter," she said. "He said the damp. He said the old age."

"Is that what you think?" Thomas asked.

"I think it is the winter."

"It is not the winter."

"Then what is it?"

Thomas finally looked at her. His eyes were wide. They were clear. They were empty. "It is the leaving."

Margaret frowned. She did not understand. She did not want to understand. She understood enough. She understood the pain. She understood the fear. She did not understand the leaving.

"Who is leaving?"

"I am," he said.

"Where to?"

"Out."

"Out of the house?"

"Out of the body."

Margaret shuddered. She pulled her arms tighter around her knees. "That is not how it works, Thomas."

"How does it work, Margaret?"

"I do not know. I am not a doctor. I am not a priest. I am your wife."

"You are the keeper," he said. "You keep the things. You keep the coats. You keep the memories. You keep the cold."

"I keep the house warm."

"You keep the house full."

"Full of what?"

"Of us."

Margaret looked at the shawl. It lay on the rug. It looked like a dead bird. It looked like a shed skin. It looked like a door.

"I will bring it in," she said. "I will put it by the fire. I will warm it."

"You cannot warm a ghost," Thomas said.

"I am not warming a ghost. I am warming cloth."

"It is not cloth. It is a threshold."

Margaret stood up. Her legs were stiff. Her joints clicked. She was old. She was tired. She was alone in this room with the man who was disappearing.

"I will make tea," she said.

"Please do."

She walked to the kitchen. The floorboards groaned. The wind howled outside. It screamed through the eaves. It rattled the panes. It wanted to get in. It wanted to see what was happening. It wanted to drink the warmth.

Margaret boiled the water. The kettle sang. It was a high, thin note. It was a warning. It was a plea. She put the leaves in the pot. The leaves were green. They were alive. They would die in the water. They would give up their strength. They would become brown. They would become bitter. They would become tea.

She thought about the shawl. She thought about her mother. She thought about the day her mother died. She had worn the shawl. She had wrapped it around her shoulders. She had stood in the garden. She had watched the snow fall. She had felt the weight of it. She had felt the cold. She had felt the peace.

Margaret poured the tea. She put the cup on a saucer. She picked it up. It steamed. The steam rose like a spirit. It rose like a sigh. It rose like a memory.

She walked back to the living room. Thomas was still sitting. He was still still. He was watching the fire. The fire was dying. The logs were turning to ash. The light was fading. The shadows were growing.

"Here," she said. She held the cup out.

He took it. His fingers were cold. They burned her hand. She did not pull away. She held the cup for him. She held it until he could hold it himself.

"Thank you," he said.

"Drink."

He drank. He closed his eyes. He opened them. He looked at her.

"It is good," he said.

"It is warm."

"It is life."

"It is just tea."

"It is enough."

Margaret sat down again. She sat on the floor. She looked at the shawl. It was still there. It was still grey. It was still heavy. It was still waiting.

"Thomas," she said.

"Yes?"

"What do you mean by threshold?"

He put the cup down. He set it on the table. He looked at the shawl. He looked at Margaret.

"A threshold is a place," he said. "It is a line. It is a boundary. You are here. I am there. The shawl is the line."

"Between where and where?"

"Between the living and the gone."

"Are you gone?"

"No. Not yet. I am in the middle. I am in the door. I am in the hinge."

Margaret felt a chill. It was not from the room. It was from inside. It was in her stomach. It was in her throat.

"Then take the shawl," she said. "Put it on. Cross over."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because I am afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of the other side."

"What is on the other side?"

"I do not know. That is the point. If I knew, it would not be a mystery. If I knew, it would not be a threshold. It would just be a wall."

Margaret looked at her hands. They were wrinkled. They were spotted. They were strong. They had held children. They had held lovers. They had held the world together.

"I am not afraid," she said.

"You should be."

"I am not."

"Then why do you tremble?"

"I am cold."

"You are not cold. You are terrified."

Margaret looked at him. She did not blink. She did not cry. She did not argue. She looked at the shawl. She looked at the fire. She looked at the dark corner of the room.

"You are wrong," she said.

"I am right."

"No. You are wrong. You are not in the door. You are in the room. You are here. You are with me."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Then why do I feel so far away?"

"Because you are trying to leave. Stop trying to leave. Stay."

"I cannot stay. I am fading. I am becoming thin. I am becoming light."

"Then be light. Be like the steam. Be like the dust. Be like the shawl."

Margaret reached for the shawl. She picked it up. She held it in her lap. She smoothed it out. She felt the texture. It was soft. It was worn. It was real.

"Give it to me," Thomas said.

"Why?"

"Wear it."

"I am wearing my dress."

"No. Wear the shawl. Wear the threshold. Wear the boundary."

Margaret stood up. She put the shawl over her shoulders. She wrapped it around her neck. She pulled the ends together. She tucked them in. She felt the weight. She felt the warmth. It was not warmth. It was presence. It was the presence of her mother. It was the presence of the past. It was the presence of the end.

She stood there. She looked at Thomas. She did not speak. She did not move. She let the shawl do the work. She let the shawl speak. She let the shawl be the voice.

Thomas looked at her. He looked at the shawl. He looked at her eyes.

"It fits," he said.

"It fits," she said.

"It is heavy."

"It is heavy."

"It is good."

"It is good."

Thomas stood up. His legs were unsteady. He swayed. He gripped the back of the chair. He took a step. He took another step. He walked toward Margaret. He walked toward the shawl. He walked toward the threshold.

He reached out. He touched the fabric. His hand was cold. His hand was light. He touched her shoulder. He touched her cheek. He touched her eyes.

"I am here," he said.

"I know," she said.

"I am leaving."

"I know."

"I am afraid."

"I know."

"Are you afraid?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I am staying."

Thomas smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile. It was a true smile.

"You are the keeper," he said.

"Yes."

"You keep the things."

"Yes."

"You keep the cold."

"Yes."

"You keep the threshold."

"Yes."

"Then I can go."

"Yes."

"Goodbye, Margaret."

"Goodbye, Thomas."

He stepped back. He stepped away. He stepped into the dark. He stepped into the silence. He stepped out of the room.

Margaret stood alone. The fire was out. The room was dark. The wind was gone. The air was still.

She looked at the shawl. It was still on her shoulders. It was still warm. It was still heavy.

She looked at the chair. It was empty.

She looked at the door. It was closed.

She walked to the door. She opened it. She stepped out. She stepped into the hallway. She stepped into the dark.

She walked to the window. She looked outside. The snow was falling. It was white. It was quiet. It was clean.

She put her hand on the glass. It was cold. It was hard. It was solid.

She turned around. She looked at the room. She looked at the chair. She looked at the shawl on her shoulders.

She realized something. She realized the shawl was not on her. It was on the chair.

She looked down. She was naked. She was shivering. She was cold.

She looked at the shawl. It was draped over the chair. It was folded. It was neat. It was ready.

It was ready for the next person.

It was ready for the next threshold.

Margaret walked to the chair. She sat down. She did not pick up the shawl. She did not warm herself. She did not cry.

She sat in the cold. She sat in the dark. She sat in the silence.

She waited.

She waited for the cold to take her.

She waited for the threshold to open.

She waited for the leaving.

And she was not afraid.

Because she knew.

Because she was the keeper.

And the keeping was the end.