So he went to the hardware store.

The draft was gone. In its place was a profound, earned silence. And that, Ernest decided, was its own kind of light.

It started as a whisper last November. By February, the whisper had become a thin, cold blade that sliced across his ankles as he drank his coffee. The heating bill had climbed to an indecent number. The problem, he finally realized one frosted morning, was the cracks. Hairline fractures in the old putty, gaps between the wooden sash and the frame, a small, traitorous space where the sill met the wall.