That evening, they sat together in a small garden often used by villagers to gather—a place lit by oil lamps, surrounded by trees and simple wooden benches. Sastra had brought a basket of roasted honey yams, freshly harvested from his own field. She loved them. It was something he was quietly proud of.

“There is no ginger candy today,” she said softly, biting into the sweet yam. “Mama forgot to buy some when she went to the market.”

Sastra watched her for a moment, his expression calm and attentive. “Tomorrow, I will buy it for you after delivering the letters,” he replied gently, his voice steady, respectful.

She looked at him, surprised, then smiled.

“Eat as much of the yams as you like,” he continued, carefully tying the cloth that wrapped the bamboo basket. “And take another basket home for your parents.”

Her fingers paused around the food. “You always think too much of others.”

He lowered his gaze, slightly embarrassed. “It is already night,” she said after a moment, her smile returning. “Soon, I should go home. You will escort me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered, a faint nervousness creeping into his voice. “I will.”