That night back at the mansion the three of us made a quiet pact: when the world felt loud, we would steal small refuges. They could be days, they could be walks, they could be stolen afternoons with nothing pressing. The pact felt healthful, and we sealed it with a small, private toast.
The next weeks were busy but felt buoyed. We planted a pear sapling at the mill, Angel fussing over placement while I dug the hole and Conley measured the sunlight. The foundation’s board responded with cautious enthusiasm. A few donors came to help plant the tree themselves, sleeves rolled and smiles sincere. Watching their hands in the dirt made me realize how radically public work and private tenderness could weave together: the tree would be evidence and a gift, both at once.
One evening, after a lon
