Chapter 77: Miravale Crossing Part 2
We broke to eat when the river turned late-gold.
The stew tasted like thyme and summer and smoke you didn’t have to fear. The bread was too dense and perfect because no one had the heart to throw the first ruined batch away, so they served it with the second. Children slept against knees. A woman tucked a strand of hair behind the ear of the man who had finally put down the rope. The square remembered how to be a square instead of a wound.
The elder came to us with a jug of dew-wine and six chipped cups.
“This hollow has known ash,” she said, voice rough but carrying. “Tonight, it knows starting again.”
She turned to me then — to all of us — and her eyes brightened wet.
“You kept us from breaking.”
“No,” I said quietly. “You did. We just gave you
