“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.
That night, she stood behind him while he carved a small piece of pine by the fire.
“Will you braid my hair?” she asked suddenly.
He looked up, surprised but careful. “If you want.”
She sat on a stool. His fingers moved slow, untangling strands without tugging.
“No one ever touched me without wanting something,” she whispered.
“I’m not no one,” he replied.
When he finished, he tied the braid with a strip of soft leather.
She turned to face him.
“Why did you kneel in that barn?”
He met her eyes evenly.
“Because everyone else stood over you. Someone needed to meet you eye to eye.”
Her chest tightened.
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.
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