The black heart isn't a typo. It's a diagnosis. That's what's left after your sixth consecutive month of gray skies, a windchill that files a restraining order against your face, and a December road trip where the "snow" was actually just horizontal ice doing 60 mph. You love it here. You just love it the way you love a brandy old fashioned at 11am on a Friday: darkly, unapologetically, and with zero intention of stopping.
This is for the people who treat a fish fry as a religious obligation, who think 45 degrees is shorts weather, who have screamed at a television in a bar at noon and called it brunch. Cheese curds should squeak. The custard line should be long. The football team should break your spirit annually. Still here. Still ride or die.
Built soft, built sturdy, and broken in from the first wear, with a print that survives the washer better than your optimism survives February. Roomy enough for layering when the lake effect decides to get personal.
