They spoke more the next evening.

Not all at once.
Not easily.

It began with small things.

She asked if his arm still hurt.
He said it did, but not as much.

He asked if the walk to the well was always this quiet.
She said it depended on the day.

Their words stayed close to the ground, like they were afraid to rise too high and break something.

He told her he moved often. That he followed orders and roads and seasons. That rest was rare and never lasted.

She told him she stayed. That her days looked the same. That some evenings felt longer than others.

They did not compare their lives.

They simply placed them side by side.

Sometimes they stopped talking and listened to the wind instead. The silence no longer felt heavy. It felt shared.

He noticed how she chose her words slowly, like she didn’t want to waste them.
She noticed how he listened, really listened, even when the answer was simple.

Once, he laughed softly at something she said. It surprised both of them.

She smiled, then quickly looked away.

They learned small things.

That he drank water slowly, like he was used to having very little.
That she watched the sky when she thought too much.

Nothing passed between them that needed forgiveness.

Nothing crossed a line.

But when they parted that evening, they both walked away differently than they had before.

Not lighter.

Just… less alone.