Mist hovered like a living thing across the orchard as dawn's first light unfurled through the treetops. Dew-laced leaves dripped onto wooden planks and soft earth, and around the orchard, each sapling swayed in slow greeting. Jude stepped through the rows barefoot, soaking in the wet tang of soil, the perfume of new blossoms, the living promise of memories upheld and roots deepened. Eleven wives, two children, and himself, he had counted them many times, each morning, each night, but today that counting settled into something more enduring: bond, promise, sanctuary.
He approached the firepit where Grace already waited, tending a low flame. She looked up, her hair plastered with dew, eyes bright. He handed her a clay bowl of warm broth; she took it and smiled with a softness that sent relief through his chest.
"Morning," she said, voice low.
