The quiet resolve in her voice left no space for doubt. Together, they moved quickly. Elias carried heavy buckets to the corral troughs, while Nile tied cloths around the tops so the water wouldn't foul with grit. She limped slightly when she bent, but she forced herself through it. When the windmill creaked under the first push of air, Elias looked up at the sky, then back at her inside soon, but first the boards on the west side.
Help me hold them. They nailed two loose planks over the gaps where dust could drive in. The hammer jarred her ribs each time she steadied the board, but she held firm. Sweat traced across her temple, and Elias noticed, ready to take over, but she refused with a shake of her head. He saw then that she wasn't proving herself to him anymore.
She was proving to herself that she could still endure. By midday, the wind arrived full, sharp with grit. The air turned brown, swallowing the view beyond the yard. Dust pressed under the doorframe, sifted through every seam in the wall. Inside, Elias pushed cloth into the cracks while Nielli dampened rags and laid them across the sill.
Their world shrank to the space of that single room. The howl outside voice. They worked side by side until there was nothing left to do but wait. Sitting at the table, they ate what was left from the pot she had cooked that morning. Each spoonful carried grit despite their efforts, and the air stung their throats.
Nielli coughed once, pressed the rag against her mouth, and looked at him. "How long?" She asked. "Could be hours, could be days," Elias answered. His voice was calm, but his eyes flicked to the door each time it rattled.
Nielli studied him, the set of his shoulders, the way he kept himself steady, even as the storm pressed harder. She thought back to the boy she had once known by the creek, quick to laugh, restless, and saw how different this man was now. He was worn, slower to speak, but in that silence was a kind of strength she hadn't expected. Elias, in turn, found himself glancing at her more than he admitted. She was thin, tired, and wounded, yet she sat upright, refusing to show fear.
He thought about the risk she had taken in coming here, about the way she had stitched her own skin without complaint, about the way she now sat waiting out a storm, as if she had always belonged in this house. It stirred something he hadn't let himself feel in years. Respect that could turn into trust. When night came, the wind showed no mercy. Dust seeped into their blankets, coated the floor, settled in their hair.
Elias rose often to check the stove and the door while Nielli kept dampening cloths and pressing them against the gaps. They didn't speak much, but when their eyes met in the lamplight, both understood what the other was holding back. Fear, yes, but also the decision to endure together rather than alone. By dawn, the storm broke. The wind dropped, leaving the land hushed and colorless under a dim sun.
The yard looked half buried, fence posts leaning under drifts of grit. Elias opened the door, blinking against the brightness, and stepped outside. Nielli followed, pulling her shawl close, and together they surveyed the damage. It was bad, but not ruin. The cattle still stood, the troughs still held water, the windmill still turned.