Winter Unclothed
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 17: March Return
The snow is melting.
I drive south on I-35, back toward Minneapolis, and I watch it happen. The snow that has been falling for weeks, months, years is starting to melt. The world is still white, but it’s a different kind of white now. It’s a white that’s starting to crack. It’s a white that’s starting to give way.
I think about the river. I think about the ice cracking. I think about the water starting to flow.
I think about what that means for me.
The drive back is different from the drive up. I’m wearing clothes. Not many. A sweater. Pants. Boots. A scarf. The first time I’ve worn clothes in a month.
It feels strange. The fabric on my skin. The weight of it. The way it moves when I move.
I don’t need it. I don’t need any of it. But I’m wearing it anyway. I’m wearing it because I want to. I’m wearing it because I can.
And that’s the difference.
I used to wear clothes because I needed to hide. I used to wear clothes because I needed to perform. I used to wear clothes because I needed to be something I wasn’t.
Now I wear clothes because I choose to.
I drive through the cities. I drive through the suburbs. I drive through the country.
The snow melts.
I think about my mother. I think about the conversation we had. I think about the way she looked at me when I walked through her door.
“You’re not wearing any clothes,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“You must be cold.”
“I’m cold,” I said. “But I’m okay.”
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she nodded. Then she made tea.
We talked for hours. I told her everything. I told her about the divorce. I told her about the numbness. I told her about the cold I didn’t feel. I told her about the man in the library. I told her about the questions. I told her about the rules. I told her about the month. I told her about the bag. I told her about the bridge. I told her about everything.
She listened. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t judge. She just listened.
And when I was done, she reached across the table and took my hand.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I’m proud of you for finding your way back.”
I looked at her. I looked at her kind face. I looked at her concerned eyes.
“I’m not sure I’m there yet,” I said.
She shook her head. “You are. You’re not a ghost anymore. That’s all that matters.”
I thought about the words. You’re not a ghost anymore. That’s what Lars said. That’s what my mother said.
I thought about how they were right.
I drove into Minneapolis. The city is still covered in snow. But the snow is melting. The streets are wet. The sidewalks are slushy. The world is starting to thaw.
I drove to my house in Seward. I park the car. I get out.
The cold hits me like a wave. I feel it on my skin. I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my breath.
I feel everything.
I walk up the steps. I open the door. I walk inside.
The house is dark and cold. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t turn on the heat.
I walk through the dark to my bedroom. I lie down on my bed. I stare at the ceiling.
I think about the month. One month. The month of walking naked through the world. The month of shedding layers. The month of becoming myself.
I think about all the things I’ve done. I think about all the things I’ve learned.
I’ve learned that I don’t need the layers.
I’ve learned that I don’t need the performance.
I’ve learned that I don’t need anything.
I’ve learned that I’m not a ghost.
I close my eyes. I try to sleep. I lie there in the dark, in the cold, in the silence.
And I think about the days ahead.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know who I’m going to become.
But I’m going to find out.
I woke up on Monday morning. The sun is rising. The light is grey and thin. The snow is still falling, but it’s melting now. It’s melting as it falls.
I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out at the world.
The world is starting to thaw.
I think about what that means for me.
I walk to the kitchen. Ingrid is there. She’s making coffee. She looks at me. I’m wearing clothes. A sweater. Pants. Boots.
She looks at me. She looks at my clothes. She doesn’t say anything.
She pours me a cup of coffee. She hands it to me. She doesn’t say anything.
I drink coffee. I sit at the kitchen table. I look out the window at the melting snow.
Brita is there too. She’s looking at me with concern in her eyes.
“Karen,” she says. “You’re wearing clothes.”
I look down at myself. At the sweater. At the pants. At the boots.
“I know,” I say.
“How do you feel?”
I think about the question. How do I feel? I don’t know. I don’t know how to answer that question.
“I feel strange,” I say. “I feel like I’m wearing a costume.”
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.
“Are you going to keep wearing them?” she asks.
I think about the question. Am I going to keep wearing clothes? I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think I’m going to figure it out as I go.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods.
“Okay,” she says. “I just wanted to understand.”
I finish my coffee. I stand up. I walk to the door. I put on my boots.
I have a bag now. A new one. A small one. It holds my books. My notes. My phone.
I don’t need it. I don’t need anything. But I carry it anyway. I carry it because I choose to.
I walk out into the cold.
The cold hits me like a wave. I feel it on my skin. I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my breath.
I feel everything.
I walk through the streets of Seward. I walk past the corner store. I walk past the church that has been closed for years. I walk past the house where the old woman used to sit on her porch.
I walk toward the Washington Avenue Bridge.
I walk through the melting snow. I walk through the slush. I walk through everything.
I reach the edge of the bridge. I stop. I look at the river.
The river is still frozen. But the cracks are getting wider. The ice is breaking up. The water is starting to flow.
I stand there, wearing clothes, looking at the river. I think about the ice cracking. I think about the water starting to flow again.
I think about what that means for me.
I step onto the bridge.
I walk. I walk across the bridge. I walk through the cold. I walk through the melting snow. I walk through everything.
I stop in the middle of the bridge. I stop at the place where I dropped the bag.
I stand there, wearing clothes, in the middle of the bridge. I stand there, with my bag over my shoulder, with everything.
I think about the bag. The bag I dropped in the snow. The bag I let go of.
I think about what it felt like to let it go.
It felt like freedom. It felt like being released. It felt like everything.
I stood there for a long time. I stand there, wearing clothes, in the middle of the bridge. I stand there, with my bag over my shoulder, with everything.
The snow falls. The wind blows. The world is white.