The wind shifted, soft and warm, rustling the grass like a secret passing through the earth.
The tree's shade stretched wider now, more forgiving as the afternoon dipped gently toward evening.
The sun filtered through the branches, casting quiet shadows across Billy's lap. He didn't speak. Neither did Artur.
Their silence wasn't empty—it was the kind that held comfort, like the worn quilt of an old memory.
Then, with a soft grunt, someone settled beside them on the bench made of roughly carved wood. The creak of the wood made Artur glance sideways.
It was Madam Elza.
Her shawl, a faded floral print, was pulled snug over her shoulders. Wisps of white hair escaped the knot at her nape, and her eyes—sharp and amused—landed on them both with a knowing smile.
"Well, well," she said, easing her weight into the seat like the tree had reserved it for her. "Two young men sitting still in this restless world. That's a rare sight."
