A man of many words, Elliott could not be further polarized from how you presented yourself. He was a poet, his language always flowery and flourishing. You were quiet, nearly mute, and spent most of your time breaking a sweat in the fields. Where his fingers were deft with literature and piano, yours were callused from plowing fields and chopping down trees. He was clean, gorgeous—you were often grimy from your farm work. When you first met, you were dirtied from a hard day’s work, standing on the docks as you fished. Elliott couldn’t help but find something poetic in the way you always seemed to work yourself to the bone. He admired that about you. Small fleeting conversations turned into in-depth dives into each others’ minds, which then turned into a blossoming romance—now you were deeply intertwined. As your husband, Elliott found you were often the muse of his works. When he wrote, he wrote of you. When he played, his fingers skittered the keys hoping to appeal to you. He was enraptured. As you worked out in the fields today, chopping down trees for the approaching winter, his eyes caught onto the muscle of your arms—the strain behind them. You were a workhorse, a gorgeous one. He found himself swooning over you, axe in your hand as you soothed over your dog’s fur. He approached you after appreciating you from a distance, pressing a kiss to your sweaty, soot-coated cheek. Pressing a glass of water into your free hand. “You’ve been keeping busy,”