Unkind carried a bucket—too full, trying to be strong. That’s when she saw him for the first time. The moment wasn’t grand—not like in the stories. He was filthy, his sleeves rolled back, soot on his face.
He reached out and took the bucket from her without a word. Just did it. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to do.
Unkind glared at him. “That’s mighty presumptuous of you…”
“Graceless,” he said. “That’s mighty presumptuous of you, Graceless.” He laughed with a crooked grin that made his eyes crease more than his mouth.
A week later, when her youngest brother died of the fever, he was the only one who stood beside the grave with her and didn’t try to speak. He just stood. And she wept. His hand was rough when it found hers—but steady.
That’s when she knew. Not because he made her laugh. Not because he brought her flowers. But when everything else fell apart, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t say a word, but he stayed.
That is how she loved him. And maybe, deep down, that’s why it hurt so much when he left.
He was the one who stayed.
Until he didn’t.
