Inside, the light shifted across the wooden floor as the sun rose higher. Tala hadn't touched the food. The tin bowl sat cold by the time Josiah returned near midm morning, his arms full of chopped kindling. His boots made a low thud across the floorboards, but she didn't flinch this time. She was sitting up against the wall now, propped awkwardly with her arms, the blanket he had given her covering what remained of her legs.
Her eyes, sharp and clearer than the night before, tracked him the entire way, but she didn't speak. He didn't either. He set the kindling beside the stove, lit the fire, and moved to the water barrel without a word. As he passed her, he noticed her fingers twitch. She was trying to shift herself upright, her arms slipping a little.
She winced, a sharp intake of breath, her hand grabbing at her side. He paused, then crouched beside her. "You'll rip your stitches," he said, his voice low and rough from disuse. It was the first full sentence he had said since finding her. She stared at him, her lips parted, a flicker of surprise in her dark eyes.
He held her gaze for a second longer, then reached an arm behind her back, and helped her sit straighter. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the subtle tremor in her muscles. She was strong, or trying to be. He saw it now, clearer in the daylight, the cold fury that burned beneath the surface of her pain. It was not a fury directed at him, but at everything, at the world that had broken her.
He pulled over an old three-legged chair he had made years ago. "Try this," he muttered. "She didn't move." He pointed again, his gesture firm. "You slide forward. Arms here.
Hold steady. She didn't answer, but she moved, her body a testament to a will that would not be broken. She gritted her teeth, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she eased her weight from the cot to the chair. He held her upper back, steadying her without pressing, and when she was finally in place, he let go. She sat for a minute, adjusting her balance, her palms resting on the edge of her thighs, or where they used to be.
Her eyes swept the cabin, taking in the details. The rifle by the door, the pair of worn boots, the long crack that ran through the wall above the stove. The place was quiet, worn, lived in. "You live here alone?" she asked, her voice low and raw, but firming. He nodded.
She studied him, her gaze lingering on the thin white scar that ran from his jaw to just under his left ear, the slight drag in his right leg when he walked. She looked down at her own legs and a bitter unspoken understanding passed between them. "You could have left me," she said. "I didn't," he replied simply. A silence hung between them, not hostile, but heavy, like dust settling after a storm.
He went to the table, scooped some stew from a pot, and brought it to her in a fresh tin bowl. This time, she took it, her fingers shaking as she ate. He didn't stare, didn't sit close. He just stayed nearby, his presence a quiet, unobtrusive guard against the ghosts that haunted the small, silent room. Later that afternoon, she tried to crawl across the floor.