She waited for something else — a condition, a demand.
It didn’t come.
After breakfast, he stepped outside to mend a shutter. She followed and sat on the porch steps.
The valley stretched wide and bright below them. Pine and smoke drifted in the air.
“You used to live near a river,” he said after a while.
She frowned. “How’d you know?”
“Your hands. And your accent.”
She looked down at her knuckles — raw, cracked, proof of fieldwork and years of surviving.
“My mother and I farmed.”
He nodded. No pity.
Later, he set a folded dress on a chair.
“My sister’s,” he said. “If you’d rather not wear what they put you in.”
The fabric was clean. Soft. Smelled faintly of soap.
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