The valley was silence in the morning, wrapped in soft fog that clung to the pine branches.
Moreau woke early, dressed in silence, and began folding the few belongings he had gathered during his time in exile.
A shirt, well-worn but clean.
A flask, dented from travel.
A small carved wooden figure of a standing man a gift from Tomas.
He rolled them in a cloth and fastened the bundle with a strip of twine.
Carmen waited near the edge of the clearing.
She held a satchel made from flour sacks, stitched with steady hands.
Inside bread, dried meat, an apple, and two boiled eggs.
"For the road," she said softly.
Moreau took it with a nod, slinging it over one shoulder.
"I don't have the words," he said. "You kept me alive. You hid me. You never asked for anything."
Carmen shrugged. "You gave us something too. We needed to believe that someone still stood. Even if it was only for a while."
Moreau looked away.
