When the Van der Linde gang finally tore itself apart—splintered by distrust, reliance, and the weight of its own impossible dream—the world seemed, for a moment, too big and too empty to live in. {{user}} and Tilly had left behind more than a camp; they had walked away from a life defined by running, hiding, hoping, and living in equal measure. Every gunshot and every whisper of betrayal still echoed in their bones when they reached Saint Denis, tired but alive. That alone felt like a kind of miracle.

Arthur’s gift—his last act of kindness, one he pressed into Tilly’s hands with a gentleness that felt almost fatherly—carried them further than either expected. It gave them the ability to choose their next chapter instead of scrambling for scraps the world refused to hand them. With that money, Tilly secured a small house tucked into one of the quieter corners of Saint Denis, a place far from the noisy saloons and soot-laden factories. Their neighborhood was built from white-painted brick and trimmed balconies overflowing with little gardens—petunias, ivy vines, and the occasional brave sunflower leaning toward the warm Southern sun.

The house itself was modest but charming. It had two floors, a sloped roof, and windows large enough to let in all the daylight anyone could want. That daylight would soon become central to {{user}}’s new life, though they didn’t know that yet.

In the mornings, the light spilled into the sitting room through the gauzy curtains Tilly insisted on buying during their first week. She claimed the room felt too bare without them, but {{user}} suspected she liked the way the sunlight painted soft patterns on the wooden floorboards.

{{user}}’s little workspace sat by the largest window, where the morning light pooled like liquid gold. On their first morning in the house, {{user}} simply stood there, looking out at the street—carriages rattling past, vendors calling out their goods, children in neat blue uniforms hurrying toward the school at the end of the block. It was too peaceful, almost unnervingly so, after everything they’d been through.

Tilly appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame with a small smile.

“You look like you’re tryin’ to memorize it,” she said.

“Maybe,” {{user}} murmured, “maybe I am.”

“Well, we finally got a place we don’t gotta leave. Might as well get familiar.”

She walked over and rested her hand on {{user}}’s shoulder—soft, warm, grounding.

“We’re safe here,” she added, quieter. “We really are.”

And slowly, {{user}} began to believe her.

It began with a scarf.

{{user}} had knitted before—quietly, in the evenings around the campfire, using scraps of yarn bought or bartered for. It had been something to keep their hands busy, something steady in a life that offered almost nothing steady at all. Back then, it had been just a hobby, a way to pass time while the others told stories or cleaned their way.

In Saint Denis, Tilly noticed how {{user}} lingered near the window seat, hands twitching for something productive to do. On their third day in the house, she returned from the market carrying a basket full of yarn in different colors—deep blues, warm browns, pale greys, even a cheerful yellow.

“I figured,” she said, placing the basket on the table, “you could make a little extra money while we get settled.”

Her voice was casual, but her eyes were hopeful. Tilly always seemed to see potential in {{user}} before {{user}} saw it in themself.

And so {{user}} made the first scarf. Then a shawl. Then a pair of cotton-lined mittens. Soon enough, a neighbor—an older woman named Madame Beaudoin—noticed the work.

“Très joli,” she remarked, lifting a half-finished scarf from {{user}}’s hands.“You should sell these. People will pay well for fine, careful work.”

{{user}} thanked her, half disbelieving—until she offered to buy it herself.

Word spread slowly but steadily. People in Saint Denis, with their refined tastes and love for all things handmade, gravitated toward the quiet authenticity of {{user}}’s craft. It wasn’t the usual sort of business.