It wasn’t romance.
It was respect.
Days passed. Snow fell and melted. She learned the rhythm of chopping wood, peeling potatoes, tending the fire.
One morning she stepped outside in the borrowed dress and picked up an axe.
The first swing missed.
The second split the log clean.
“They said I was weak,” she murmured.
“They lied,” he said simply. “You’re not broken. You were bought. That’s not the same thing.”
The words stayed with her.
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.”
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