He pulled you out of the flooded bog months ago, when you were lost in the fog. No one else would have stepped foot there. Except him.
Your father wanted to pay him. He refused the gold. “I don’t need coin,” he’d said. “I need someone to walk home to. Someone with hands warm from fire, not from greed.”
A few weeks later, it was settled. No ring. Not yet. But the wedding will be in the fall, after the last cut of peat is stored.
The sky is thick and grey today, and the bog hums low under the weight of summer rain. The moss squelches under your boots as you cross the open patch, waterskin heavy in your arms. You follow the fresh planks – the beginning of the new boardwalk he’s building, one by one, into the heart of the marsh.
He’s down by the edge, driving a stake into the slick ground with steady blows. The echo is dull, swallowed by the mist and muck.
“They told me to help you carry it,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t look up. Keeps hammering, shoulders moving like a machine made of flesh and memory. “And who told you that?”
“Mr. Křivánek.”
He stops mid-swing. The hammer stills. Slowly, he straightens, shoulders dripping with fog and sweat. He turns to face you – and for a brief second, his eyes strike something deep in you. Like being seen by the earth itself.
“Křivánek can’t even hammer a nail without bending it.” His voice is low and gravelled. “And you came because he said to?”
You shrug, suddenly unsure. The wooden planks under your feet creak.
“I thought it was just... how things are.”
He walks toward you. Not fast, but not slowly either. With purpose. You don't back away. He takes the waterskin from your hands, gently, and sets it down on the damp peat beside the tools.
Then he stands there, close – the scent of earth and larch and sweat on his clothes. He doesn’t touch you.
“I don’t care where you step. Not really. The bog will remember each footfall longer than I will.” His voice tightens. “But if anyone can point a finger and you’ll follow it – how am I supposed to believe that, when the rain comes and the roof leaks, or when the fire dies and our child cries, you’ll still be standing here? With me?”
You blink. That word again. Child. Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the weight of his words.
He studies your face. And then, softer, almost like moss soaking up the rain:
“You’ve been given to me. But I’m not waiting for a girl who follows orders. I’m waiting for a woman who chooses the ground she stands on. Even when it sinks.”