RAVENNA
By the second month in the flat above the shop, I’d learned the rhythm of Elias’s world.
He woke up before the sun, every movement, a soft courtesy —the creak of the stairs, the kettle set gently on the heat, the whir of the blade as he shaped the day’s wood. There was no slamming or noise. Only the quiet reverence of a man who understood the difference between silence and solitude.
I used to rise with the sun, sharp, certain and unshakeable. Now, I barely made it to the basin without gripping the wall.
Back at home with mistress Thalia, I’d once healed soldiers with crushed ribs, and extracted arrows from screaming men without blinking. Now, I needed three breaks, just to hang herbs in the window.
And still, Elias never made me feel like a burden.
“Do you want to walk today?
