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.
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.
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