The man who owned the cabin wasn’t expecting her.

You don’t have to.

She understood.

She hadn’t spoken in four days.

That night, she sat beside him on the porch. The stars were so thick they looked like spilled milk. She pointed at the North Star. He nodded. She pointed at his shoulder, where a scar ran from his collar to his elbow. He didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away.

The cabin sat at the edge of nothing. No town for thirty miles, no road for ten, no path for the last three. Nora had walked that non-path in the dark, her boots caked with mud, her hands bleeding from pushing through pine branches.

One night, deep in winter, he carved her a small wooden bird. A sparrow. He set it on her pillow. She found it and held it to her chest. Then she walked to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed his forehead.

She put her hand in his. That was the first conversation.

But the rest — the real rest — lived in the space between.

She walked in.

“Stay.”

They never needed many words after that. A few, here and there. Snow. Please. Yes. Nora (her name, when he finally learned it). Silas (his, when she finally said it).