The climb back toward higher ground was gradual, almost considerate. The path didn't insist on effort; it simply asked for consistency. Stone replaced soil beneath their feet, then thinned again into scrub and wind-combed grass.
They didn't speak for a while.
The village sounds faded—not cut off, just absorbed into distance—until they were texture again, part of the day rather than its center. Rhys felt no sense of extraction, no thread pulling taut behind them. Whatever had been shared there had already settled where it belonged.
Caria walked with her hands loose at her sides, shoulders unburdened. "I always forget," she said eventually, "how much energy it takes to matter everywhere."
Rhys glanced at her. "You don't forget," he said. "You just forgive yourself for not doing it."
She laughed softly. "That too."
