Spring arrived like a slow breath, warming the edges of the cold that had seeped into Arthur's bones all winter. The air still carried the weight of grease and asphalt, but now it also held something else—hope.
Arthur had started hiding the money he earned in a hollow section under the floorboards. Every time he added another thick envelope of bills, his heart thudded a little louder. He wasn't proud of how he got it, but he couldn't deny what it gave him: a future.
Elsa seemed lighter too. The radio played more often. The old couch was always draped in a fresh blanket. Sometimes, he'd come home to find her humming along with classical music, her face tilted toward the sun bleeding through their single window.
They were surviving. Maybe even beginning to live.
One night, as they sat eating real stew—carrots, potatoes, chunks of soft meat—Elsa set her spoon down carefully and said, "We need to start planning."
Arthur looked up. "Planning what?"
"The rest of our lives," she said simply. "You said you wanted to build something. You meant it, didn't you?"
He swallowed his bite. "Yeah. I meant it."
"Then let's talk about it."
They sat on the floor with a notebook between them. Arthur wrote while Elsa spoke.
"First," she said, "we need to get out of this apartment. It's too small. Too broken. Not safe."
He nodded. "A place of our own."
"Not just to live in," she added. "A place that earns something. If we can get a property that brings in rent, we can buy more. Make it grow."
Arthur smiled. "You've really thought this through."
"I had time," she said with a small grin. "Lying on that couch all day isn't as relaxing as it seems."
He flipped to a new page. "So how much do we need?"
"A fixer-upper might be cheap—maybe three hundred, four hundred thousand. Renovate it, rent it out. If we get tenants, we could have a monthly income. You keep working for now, but we use your money smartly."
Arthur tapped his pen. "That's a lot of money."
"You've already saved more than most," she reminded him. "If we hold off for two or three more months, you'll be close."
He didn't answer right away. He thought about Jared. About the blinking tracker. About how close they might have come to being found out.
"I can't stay at that job forever," he said. "One wrong car, and I'm done."
"Then we time it carefully. We walk out with just enough, not a coin more."
Arthur looked at her—really looked at her. She was blind. She had no job. No family. No safety net. Yet here she was, dreaming for the both of them.
He reached across and gently squeezed her hand.
"You're brilliant, you know that?"
She smiled, the kind that reached her cheeks. "I just know what I want. And I know you want it too."
---
The next few weeks became focused.
Arthur stopped spending on anything he didn't absolutely need. They ate simply, saved aggressively, and met nightly to dream about layouts, prices, colors—even a tiny garden where Elsa could sit with a radio and herbs she could touch and smell.
They also began scouting neighborhoods, walking quietly past buildings that were up for sale. Elsa couldn't see them, but Arthur described them in rich detail. The cracks in the walls, the fences leaning like tired shoulders, the broken signs that read "BANK REPOSSESSED."
"This one feels like it has a story," he'd say.
"Then maybe it's waiting for a new one," Elsa would answer.
At night, they would lie in their shared space—Arthur on the mattress now, Elsa on the couch—talking until the ceiling turned from black to gray.
"Do you think we're crazy?" Arthur asked once.
"Yes," Elsa answered instantly. "But the good kind."
They both laughed.
And neither of them said it out loud, but something sacred had been exchanged in those late hours. Not just promises.
Love.
Not loud or rushed or dramatic. But soft, slow, and stitched into the routine of each passing day.
They didn't say the words.
Not yet.
But they were building something.
And they both knew it had already begun.