He always let her speak first—except out here, where silence said more. Now the mist returns alone, just like he does.
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She always knew when the mist would come—how it would settle between the trees like breath held too long. They never needed words here. Just the quiet bend of the river and the soft hush of morning.
Now he stands alone, listening for her in the silence she left behind.
The mist is thicker this year.
She’d have loved that.
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