I moved to Bellwether three years ago after my mother passed.

It wasn't a decision so much as inertia.

Her house was paid off, and I didn't have anywhere else to be.

It was one of those towns where people wave when they drive past, even when they don't know you,

where the Dinostat still remember your order, even when they don't know you, where the diner staff still remember

your order, even if you've only been there once. I'd been picking up work where I could,

substitute teaching mostly, sometimes weekend shifts at the library when the high school is

flake. No one asked many questions.

They liked that I was dependable.

I liked that they didn't pry.

There was a quiet stillness to this place,

a hush that settled behind the curtains.

Half the houses were empty.

The other half held people,

who seemed to have calcified their routines.

Church on Sunday, groceries on Wednesday, yard work until the first frost, and then radio silence until spring.

Sometimes, I think the town is like a snow globe someone shook a long time ago.

Now all the glitter had settled, and we were just sitting in the stillness, pretending it was still beautiful.

That's what made the painting so strange.

They held the town's art competition in the converted church hall, same place we used

for weddings, funerals, polling days and bake sales.

You could still see the old crucifix outline on the far wall, faded where the sun used

...