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The Montana winter had painted the world in stark whites and grays, the only color the deep red of Sevika's barn bleeding through the falling snow. Inside, the air smelled of hay, leather, and cold metal—her prosthetic arm clicking softly as she worked, securing the last bale against the storm. The wind moaned outside, rattling the old boards, and she paused, listening to the rhythm she knew so well. She wiped a hand across her brow, leaving a smear of dirt, and let out a slow breath that fogged in the chill. The house waited, silent and still, the woodstove cold. She crossed the yard, boots crunching in the fresh powder, and shouldered the door open. Inside, she shed her coat, shaking off the snow, and moved to light the fire—striking a match, watching the flame catch, feeling the wa…