The front door blew open. Donella evanesced and Sidra, startled, whirled to see none other than Torin enter the cottage, windblown and ruddy.

“Sometimes, when I watch the fire burn in the forge,” Una continued, “I imagine what it would be like to be immortal, to hold no fear of death. To dance and burn for an endless era. And I think how dull such an existence would be. That one would do anything to feel the sharp edge of life.

To doubt those they loved most, for sometimes love was like dust in the eyes, a hindrance when it came to seeing truth.

“There is no failure in love,” she said and covered the furrows. The soil was rich; it swallowed a portion of her grief. “And I have loved without measure.”

He would have said anything to fill the roar of such silence, but now he understood it better. The weight of each word he uttered, and how his words unfolded in the air. He was far more mindful of them now, understanding that most of them were worthless.

She wanted the truth. She wanted to feel it brush against her skin, wanted to claim it with her hands. She wanted honesty, even if it felt like claws raking across her soul.