They ate in near quiet. The stew burned her tongue, but she didn’t slow down. It tasted real — not stale, not rationed.
When night settled, he placed a blanket near the hearth.
“You take the bed,” he said. “I’ll stay here.”
She stiffened. “I don’t want to be touched.”
He nodded once. “I won’t touch what isn’t offered.”
Something inside her — something coiled tight for years — loosened.
That night, for the first time since her mother died, Allora slept without listening for boots on the floor.
Cole sat awake by the fire, staring into flames.
He had paid three coins.
But he hadn’t bought her.
He had bought a chance.
Morning crept in gold and quiet.
No shouting.
No doors slamming.
Just the smell of coffee.
Cole stood by the stove, turning eggs in a skillet.
“Morning,” he said.
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.
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