365. As they finished trimming the Christmas tree, fat heavy snowflakes scattered to the ground. His daughter, indifferent to the festivities, disinterested even in the temptation of a chocolate advent calendar, snow-suited, rolls over from her feet-kicking-face-down-tantrum. She opens her eyes and stares at the white ceiling trying to remember her dream. She runs into the house and emerges, seconds later, only to throw herself back down on the ground. He moves over to temper the imminent temper. She is lying on her stomach with one eye closed, driving a toy truck along the road she has cleared with her fingers.

Her game stayed with him through the evening; past her bedtime, then his. He fell asleep with images of roads taken and roads not taken, choices made and choices not made, paths explored and paths left untread floating in his mind; branches and sequels had brought him to this moment in time, alone in his bed with the ghosts of personal history snuggled close to his warmth under the great, fluffy comforter.