"Even though I didn't think we'd survive. Even though running felt like choosing one death over another." Cole listened, throat tight. "And then you appeared," Sani continued. "The stranger with a rifle and no reason to care."
"You stood between us and the men who wanted us dead, and you didn't hesitate. Not for a second. Do you know what that meant to me?" "No." "It meant the world wasn't entirely broken."
"That there were still people who do the right thing even when it costs them. You gave me more than my life back that day, Cole. You gave me hope." Cole stared at the ground. "I'm not a hero, Sani."
"I know. You're just a man. A stubborn, difficult man who thinks he's better off alone. But you're wrong." "How do you know?"
"Because I've watched you for ten years. I've seen you smile when you think no one's looking. I've heard you laugh at Lyra's terrible jokes. I've watched you teach Kaya how to track, even though she already knew half of it. You're not alone because you want to be."
"You're alone because you're scared." "Scared of what?" "Of losing people. Of caring too much and having it ripped away." Cole's hands curled into fists.
"You don't know what you're talking about." "Don't I?" Sani's voice was soft, but relentless. "You told us once your parents died when you were young. That you've been moving ever since."
"How long has it been since you let yourself stay anywhere? Since you let yourself want something that wasn't just survival?" Cole didn't answer. "We're offering you a choice, Cole," Sani said. "Not between freedom and obligation."
"Between running forever and finally stopping. Between surviving and living. And I know which one I think you should choose, but it has to be yours." She stood, brushed off her skirt, and started back toward town. Cole watched her go, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every step she took.
He sat there until the stars came out, cold and distant and unchanging. Then he stood, walked back to town, and found a different room in the boarding house, one he could afford for the night. He needed to think without their voices in his head. Needed silence. But silence didn't help.
He lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, and replayed every moment of the last ten years. The canyon. The cattle drive. The ambush. A hundred small moments in between.
Shared meals. Quiet conversations. The easy rhythm of working alongside people who knew his moods and didn't judge them. Somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he'd built something. Not a home, exactly, but something close.