The sky had already turned to violet by the time she opened the window. The scent of ironwood and nettle drifted in, cool against her cheek. She moved through the room with the kind of quiet that wasn’t silence, just something held. The linen she reached for had been tucked away for weeks—creased softly at the edges, worn in a way only touch remembers. She folded it around her shoulders without fastening it. Let the wind decide.
In the corner, the small box waited—lacquered, locked. She ran a thumb over the clasp but didn’t open it. Instead, she chose three things from memory and slipped them into the folds of her bag: a sprig of something dry, a thread once pulled from a sleeve, a stone she’d kept cool. Nothing labeled. Nothing explained. She never brought more than was needed. And still, somehow, she always returned with less.
Outside, the trees leaned closer. The path was familiar, but her pace was different tonight—measured, not slow. Beneath her heel, the moss gave way with just enough sound to be remembered. The one she was meeting would not see her first. But he would know the moment the field changed. The moment something unseen had entered it.
