Her face reflected faintly in the glass. The image stopped him. There had been women in his life before. Short-lived, distant, but none who stayed long enough to make silence feel natural. With Naira, words weren't needed.
Presence was enough. Inside, she was making coffee, using the last of their beans. Town's a half day's ride, Elias said. Well need to go tomorrow for supplies. She nodded.
You trust the people there? Not much, he admitted. But they don't bother me. I keep to myself. She looked up, meeting his eyes.
And me? Will they bother me? He hesitated. They might stare. Some talk too much, but you'll be with me.
That answer seemed to settle her. It was the first time he'd said with me aloud, and he saw the small shift in her expression, a flicker of something between relief and disbelief. The day passed in quiet work. They checked the horses, mended gear, and prepared for the trip when the sun began to set, painting the ridges in gold. Naira was outside hanging damp clothes near the fire.
Elias sat on the porch carving a small piece of wood. He didn't plan to speak, but the words came anyway. I used to have a wife, he said quietly. Naira turned slowly. He didn't look at her.
Before the war, he continued. Her name was Clara. She got sick the winter after I came back. Fever took her before spring. We didn't have children.
He paused, the sound of his knife steady against the wood. After that, I stopped trying to make anything last. Naira didn't move closer, but her voice softened. And now he met her gaze then, his eyes tired but clear. Now I don't know.
You make me forget for a while. For a moment neither spoke. The wind pushed smoke from the fire between them, carrying the faint smell of cedar. Naira walked toward him, slow, deliberate. She took the carving from his hand and turned it in her fingers.
It was a small horse, rough but careful. "You remember her through this?" she asked. I remember her through the quiet, he said.