Aaron woke before the sun, the room grey and quiet, the lake invisible beyond the window. He lay still for a moment, orienting himself to the weight on his chest — not Sophie's hand, but the book Kerensa had given him, which he had carried to bed and read by lamplight until his eyes had grown heavy.
He picked it up and opened it to a page he had marked. The poem was short, barely eight lines, about a woman who plants a tree knowing she will never sit in its shade. He read it twice, the words settling into him the way they had the night before.
Beside him, Sophie stirred. Her hand found his arm, her voice rough with sleep. "You're reading already?"
"Couldn't sleep."
She shifted closer, her head finding his shoulder, her eyes on the page. "Read it to me."
He did. His voice was low, the words carrying through the quiet room, the lake beginning to lighten beyond the window. When he finished, Sophie was quiet for a moment.
"She's good," Sophie said.
"She is."
