“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.
