CHAPTER SEVEN: EVERY DAY MATTERS
1424 Words
The morning air still carried the coolness of dawn when Aria arrived at the mango tree, her sandals damp from the dew-soaked grass. Damien's car was already parked at the edge of the village road, his driver leaning against the hood with a newspaper, settling in for what had become a familiar wait. Damien himself stood beneath the tree, watching the first rays of sunlight spill like gold across the fields beyond the village.
Neither of them mentioned the day before. There was no need to. Everything that had needed saying had already been said beneath this same tree, and now there was only the quiet comfort of moving forward.
Aria settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched, and let herself smile—the first easy smile she'd worn in days.
"No more secrets," she said.
Damien turned to look at her, something soft passing over his face. "No more secrets," he agreed.
She held out her hand, her little finger extended between them, the way children sealed promises they intended to keep forever. "Promise?"
He laughed, a real laugh, warm and unguarded, and hooked his finger with hers. "Promise."
They sat like that for a moment, fingers linked, the sun climbing steadily behind them, and for the first time in what felt like a very long while, the future didn't feel like something to fear. It felt like something to walk into, together, one honest day at a time.
It was Aria who noticed the thoughtful look settling over Damien's face later that morning, his gaze drifting toward the horizon as though searching for something just out of reach.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
He hesitated, then admitted, "Just... things I haven't done yet."
Aria sat up straighter, an idea sparking behind her eyes. "If you could do anything in the world," she said, "what would it be?"
Damien laughed, caught off guard. "Anything?"
"Anything," she confirmed, already pulling a small notebook from her bag, the kind she used for sketching flowers and pressing petals between its pages.
And so they began, tentatively at first, then with growing enthusiasm, tossing ideas back and forth like children building something precious out of nothing.
"Watch the sunrise from the highest hill," Damien said.
"Dance in the rain," Aria added, grinning.
"Plant a mango tree together. A new one. Ours."
"Visit the ocean—I've never even seen it."
"Cook a meal together. A real one, not just roasted corn."
"Sleep under the stars."
"Teach the village children to read properly, not just the alphabet."
"Take a photograph together. A real one, not just in our heads."
Aria wrote each one down carefully, her handwriting small and neat, filling the blank page with a list that felt less like dreams and more like promises. When she finished, she looked up at him, her eyes bright with a kind of fierce determination.
"We'll do every single one," she said.
Damien reached over and squeezed her hand. "Every single one," he echoed, and for a moment, the weight sitting quietly beneath his ribs seemed to lift, just slightly, just enough.
By afternoon, the village children had found them, as they always did, tugging at Damien's sleeves and begging him to join their football match on the dusty field near the school.
"Come on, Brother Damien!" one of the boys shouted, already dribbling an old, half-deflated ball toward him. "You promised you'd get better!"
Damien groaned theatrically, but Aria could see the smile tugging at his lips as he rose to his feet. "Fine, fine. But don't blame me when I embarrass myself again."
What followed could hardly be called a football match. Teams changed whenever it suited whichever child felt like switching sides, the rules bent themselves into whatever shape the moment required, and shouting drowned out anything resembling strategy. And then, at a moment nobody quite expected, Damien found the ball at his feet with an open path to the makeshift goal marked by two stacked stones.
He kicked. The ball sailed forward and, impossibly, sank cleanly between the stones.
The children erupted as though he'd won an actual World Cup, swarming him, climbing on his back, shouting his name into the afternoon air. One small boy, no older than seven, threw his hands up triumphantly.
"Brother Damien is finally learning!"
Aria laughed until her stomach ached, until tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, watching Damien get lifted onto small shoulders that could barely hold his weight, his own laughter ringing out louder than she'd heard in weeks.
It happened in the middle of all that laughter, so quietly that only Aria noticed.
Damien, still catching his breath from the celebration, suddenly turned away, his shoulders jerking as a cough tore through him—hard, sharp, unrelenting. He pressed a handkerchief into his mouth, his back to the children, his free hand braced against his knee.
When he pulled the handkerchief away, there was a small spot of red against the white fabric.
He folded it quickly, tucking it into his pocket before anyone could see, and by the time he turned back around, his face had rearranged itself into something calm, something normal.
Aria was beside him in an instant. "Are you okay?"
"Just swallowed dust," he said, offering a smile that reached his eyes convincingly enough. "You know how it gets out here."
She studied him for a moment, searching for anything beneath the surface of his expression, but found nothing except his familiar, easy warmth. She let herself believe him, because believing him was easier than the alternative, and because the afternoon was too beautiful to fill with worry that might not be necessary.
She didn't see him press his hand briefly against his chest as they walked back toward the village, or the way his breath came just slightly uneven beneath his calm exterior.
Miles away, in a house far grander and colder than anything in the village, Mrs. Blackwood sat alone in her study, the photographs spread across her desk once again.
She had looked at them countless times since receiving them—images of Aria and Damien together, laughing, close, unmistakably in love. Each time before, anger had risen swiftly, sharp and certain. But tonight, something different settled in her chest instead.
Guilt.
The investigator stood across from her, waiting patiently as she studied the images in silence.
"Did the girl leave him?" she finally asked, her voice quieter than usual. "When did she find out?"
"No," the investigator replied simply. "She stayed."
Mrs. Blackwood's fingers stilled against the edge of the photograph. She hadn't expected that answer. Somewhere in her mind, she had assumed—perhaps hoped—that the girl would prove herself unworthy, would run at the first sign of difficulty, would confirm every suspicion Mrs. Blackwood had carried about people who came from nothing.
"She stayed," Mrs. Blackwood whispered again, almost to herself, as though testing the weight of the words.
She set the photograph down slowly, her earlier certainty beginning to c***k at its edges. For the first time since this had all begun, she found herself wondering whether she had judged the girl—judged Aria—far too quickly, and far too harshly.
The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
That evening, Damien and Aria sat together on the small hill overlooking the village, watching the sky bleed into shades of orange and violet as the sun sank toward the horizon. His driver waited far below, the car a small dark shape at the base of the hill, patient as ever. Aria rested her head against Damien's shoulder, her notebook of dreams tucked safely in her lap.
"Do you know what scares me?" she asked quietly.
"What?" Damien asked, his voice gentle.
She was quiet for a moment, watching the colors shift and deepen across the sky. "Wasting even one day," she finally said, a sad smile touching her lips. "Now that I know how precious they are."
Damien turned to look at her, something tender and fierce moving behind his eyes. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.
"Then let's not waste tomorrow," he murmured against her skin.
Aria closed her eyes, letting his words settle into her chest, and together they watched the last light fade from the sky, hand in hand, hearts quietly full.
Tomorrow wasn't promised to anyone.
But for Damien and Aria, tomorrow has never been more precious.
- Writer
