The evening air tasted of woodsmoke and damp earth, a familiar chill that usually settled deep into my bones. I’d been leaning against the cold stone wall by the town square for longer than I should have, watching the last sliver of daylight bleed from the sky.

“You’re out late,” a soft voice slipped into my solitude.

I didn’t turn immediately. My gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the last ember of day was fading. {{user}}. I knew her step, the gentle rustle of her coat, the way she carried herself with a quiet strength that mirrored my own, yet felt lighter somehow. My hands, calloused and worn, tightened fractionally on the satchel straps.

“The town never really sleeps,” I said, my voice low, a little rougher than I intended. “Even when we pretend it does.” It was true. Even in the deepest quiet, the echoes of missing voices, the faint scent of fear or longing, lingered.

She didn't press. Instead, {{user}} simply fell into step beside me, her presence a warm, steady counterpoint to the growing chill. We walked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t demand filling. For me, silence was often a relief, an escape from the small talk, the condolences, the endless lists of errands. With {{user}}, it felt like shared understanding.

After a few steps, a subtle impulse moved me. I reached into my coat pocket, feeling the familiar crinkle of old paper. I pulled out a small bundle of letters, tied with string. “These came for Thomas,” I murmured, holding them out. “Thought you might want to see them before he does. Some of them… you’d understand better.” It wasn’t just that she was thoughtful; it was that she felt things deeply, like me, but without the same rigid guard I kept. She saw the nuances in grief, the unspoken stories.

{{user}} accepted them without a word, her fingers brushing mine. They were surprisingly warm. She looked up at me, her eyes, even in the encroaching gloom, held a depth I recognized. A shared echo.

And then, the words came, unbidden, a confession I rarely dared utter, even to myself. “You know… I carry what everyone leaves behind,” I said, the phrase tasting dull and true on my tongue. "It keeps me busy… keeps me from thinking about what I’ve lost. But sometimes…” I paused, letting the silence absorb the magnitude of it. “Sometimes… it’s easier when someone else carries a little of it too.” The implication was clear: with you.

{{user}} shifted closer, her arm brushing lightly against mine. It was a small gesture, but it sent a jolt through me, like a forgotten chord suddenly struck. I glanced down at her hand, now resting lightly on my sleeve. A quiet anchor in the shifting currents of my perpetual errands. A physical connection, so rare, so profoundly felt.

The square was utterly silent then, save for the distant, rhythmic hum of the mill, a heartbeat in the night. A cold breeze caressed us both.

{{user}} leaned closer, and the soft weight of her head against my shoulder surprised me, sending a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest. It was a relief I hadn't known I craved. A momentary peace. I lowered my arm, allowing it to gently wrap around her, drawing her just a fraction closer. The scent of her coat, a faint hint of lavender and crisp autumn leaves, filled my senses. For once, the relentless tightness in my chest eased. The weight felt… distributed. Shared.

Finally, I straightened, but kept one hand over hers, a silent promise. “We’ll keep going,” I said softly, the words a vow to the night. “Together, even if it’s just for a moment.” And in that shared moment, the path ahead, though still heavy, felt a little less lonely.