Weeks later, she found a small wooden box on a shelf — once used for bullets. Inside lay the leather strip from her first braid.
“You kept it,” she said.
“It reminded me what choice looks like.”
She held it for a long moment.
Then she placed it back.
“I don’t need it anymore.”
That evening, she carried her old auction dress behind the cabin. The ground was cold but soft enough to dig.
She buried it.
Pressed the earth flat.
“You don’t own me anymore,” she whispered.
When she stepped back inside, Cole didn’t ask where she’d been.
He only looked at her dirt-streaked hands and nodded.
“You buried it.”
“Yes.”
He handed her a small wooden bird he’d carved.
“For when storms come back,” he said.
She sat beside him this time, not across.
“I’m not staying because I owe you,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“I’m staying because I like who I am here.”
His smile was small but real. “That’s what I hoped.”
Later, under a sky sharp with stars, she asked, almost shy, “Would you still ask me proper one day?”
“Only if you ever want to be asked.”
She took his hand and placed it over her heart.
“This is me saying yes,” she said. “Not because you bought me. Because I choose to.”
He didn’t speak.
Just held her hand like it mattered.
And maybe that was the difference between ownership and love.
The next morning, sunlight spilled over the ridge. Wind threaded through pines.
Allora stood on the porch, braid catching light.
No longer the girl sold for three silver coins.
No longer someone’s “stock.”
She was unclaimed.
Free.
And loved without price.
Inside, the fire burned bright.
This time, it wasn’t borrowed warmth.
It was home.
