Page 49 of The Devil's Thorn
“Did you bring me something edible this time?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
I lift the bag and grin. “Roasted chicken, cucumbers with lemon, and your favorite bread.”
Her eyes narrow. “And sweets?”
I hold up the white paper box, smug.
She snatches it like she hadn’t been waiting for it all along. I trail behind her, setting everything down on the table while she pours hot water into two ceramic mugs.
“You’ve been working too much,” she says without looking at me.
“I have to pay for all these pastries somehow.”
“Hmm.” She hands me a mug. “I know that tone.”
I take a sip. Chamomile. Warmth unfurling through my chest.
“What tone?”
“The one that says,‘I’m fine, stop asking me questions.’”
She walks to the table and sits, legs crossed at the ankle, pulling the bread open with graceful fingers.
I join her slowly.
“Work’s just been quiet,” I say. “Not what I expected.”
She looks at me then—really looks. Like she’s searching for something in my face I don’t know how to hide.
“You were hoping for noise?”
I shrug. “I was hoping for purpose.”
Anna hums, tearing a piece of bread and placing it in her mouth before speaking.
“Sometimes purpose waits quietly. Not every war starts with fire.”
Her words hit something soft in me. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I nod. And for a while, we eat in silence. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything. Doesn’t press or prod. Justexists.
And I think that’s why I keep coming back.
Because she lets me sit in my silence. Because she doesn’t ask who I used to be, or what I’m really doing out there. She doesn’t try to fix me. She just makes sure I’m not doing it alone.
And I… I care about her.
More than I should.
After we’ve cleaned up and she’s scolded me for not wearing thicker socks, I glance at the time on the small clock above the stove.
5:55 p.m.
“I should go,” I say, rising from the chair. “My shift starts soon, and I still need to change.”
She watches me, eyes warm.
“Don’t forget to eat something yourself.”
“I won’t.”
