It started with the old woman’s words, still echoing in the back of Sara’s mind as we stumbled through the door of the cottage.
“She’s glowing,” the woman had said earlier that day at the village shop, her wrinkled hand gripping Sara’s arm with surprising strength. “Not just her face. Her soul. It’s in her eyes… that’s what love looks like.”
Sara had laughed awkwardly, cheeks flushed, dismissing it as the harmless rambling of a sweet old stranger. But now, as she looked up at me in the dim golden light of the fire, that moment throbbed between us—unspoken, undeniable.
Something had shifted.
She stood in front of me, still wearing my hoodie, hair mussed from the wind. I could tell she was nervous by the way her fingers fiddled with the sleeve hem. But there was something else in her eye
