Rain had a rhythm now.
It came when clouds were heavy and left when the sun asked it to, with no prophecy, no threat.
People learned the shapes of its patience.
The settlement had grown—tents replaced by huts, the riverbank edged with fences that didn’t mean walls. Tor built a wheel that turned with the current and called it art; Ysra called it foolish until it drew water easier than her arms ever had. Mireya carved a calendar into the side of the oak—rings and slashes counting nothing but days survived without miracles.
Dominic and Lena woke before dawn each morning because the habit of danger had become the habit of love. They walked the fields barefoot, dew soaking their ankles, the ampersand on their wrists pale as an old scar. He carried a spade. She carried seeds. Between them hu
