A Fleeting Year

The air in Greenchase, for a breath, felt like clean linen dried in the sun. Byrd’s hands, calloused from work but gentle on my skin, traced the lines of my face as if mapping a forgotten country. We’d built a small world, just us, a quiet harbor after the tempests that had raged for so long. He didn’t ask about the ghosts that sometimes flickered behind my eyes, didn’t pry into the darkness I’d clawed my way out of. He simply held me, and for a year, that was enough.

Our days unfolded like a slow, deliberate poem. Mornings began with the smell of coffee and Byrd humming off-key as he made breakfast. I’d watch him from the doorway, a knot of gratitude tightening in my chest. He was solid, a mountain I could lean on without fear of him crumbling. He’d rescued me from the gutters, from the hollow-eyed existence I’d worn like a shroud. He’d seen the wreckage, the remnants of a life shattered, and instead of turning away, he’d offered a hand, steady and sure.

“You’re quiet today, love,” he’d say, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. He’d pull me onto his lap, his arms a safe cage.