Eleanor shook her head.
“If they want to hear our voices,” she said softly, “they know our number.”
Now, standing in front of the ruined cabin, Walter felt the full weight of what he’d agreed to. Not just a move. Not just a new home. A disappearing act performed without anger, without blame, simply because being unseen hurts like a slow bruise.
Eleanor pushed the cabin door open. The hinges screamed like they’d been waiting years to complain. Dust rose in a lazy cloud. The air inside smelled of damp wood, old smoke, and something else… a kind of forgotten patience.
Light slipped through cracks in the walls, thin and hesitant.
Walter stepped in behind her. His boots found uneven boards. He looked up. A portion of the ceiling sagged like a tired eyebrow.
Eleanor walked slowly, touching things as if greeting them.
“It’s small,” she said, as though she were pleased.
“It’s collapsing,” Walter corrected.
Eleanor turned and smiled at him, and that smile wasn’t young, but it was bright. It was the smile she used to wear when she’d find a child sitting alone at lunch and decide, without drama, to sit with them.
