I laughed softly. “Definitely. And no paper cuts.”
He didn’t laugh, exactly, but I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. It felt good—natural, easy in a way things between us hadn’t always been.
We sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need filling. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “What’s your favorite book?”
I blinked. “That’s hard. There are too many. But… probablyLittle Women. It’s comforting, in a way I can’t quite explain.”
He tilted his head like he was considering that. “Sounds like you relate.”
“Maybe,” I said with a shrug, keeping it light. I wasn’t about to unpack that right now—not with the night feeling so strangely perfect.
He looked back to the road, and I let my gaze linger on him for just a second longer.
Then he said, quieter this time, “It’s nice seeing you happy again.”
The words stopped me cold. Simple, honest—and unexpectedly gentle.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
And just like that, something shifted in the cab again. Something small. Something real.
I looked down at the book again, my fingers brushing over the worn spine.
Cavil kept his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel had softened. I could feel the shift in him, like maybe he understood more than he let on.
After a few more seconds, he spoke.
“One Christmas, when I was stationed overseas, my unit found a kid hiding out in a half-collapsed school. Didn’t speak our language, maybe seven or eight years old. We didn’t have much, but someone gave him a pack of crayons and a half-used sketchbook.” He paused, voice rougher than before. “Kid smiled like it was the best gift he’d ever gotten. Drew a picture of us—stick figures in helmets, holding hands.” A faint breath left him, almost like a laugh but not quite. “Didn’t say a word the whole time, but when he handed me that drawing, it felt like he was giving me something sacred.”
My chest ached. I hadn’t expected him to share something so raw. Soreal.
“What happened to him?” I asked, voice hushed.
Cavil shook his head slowly. “We moved out two days later. Left supplies. Never saw him again.”
I didn’t know what to say, not really. So I reached over and gently setThe Velveteen Rabbitbetween us on the bench seat—its faded cover a quiet bridge between pasts neither of us talked about often.
“Stories matter,” I said after a while. “Even the ones that don’t have an ending.”
Cavil didn’t respond right away, but I caught the way his jaw twitched—just enough to let me know he heard me.
“Mr. Fletcher introduced me to books, to reading. My parents, God bless them, were so busy, I was kind of… left behind when it came to learning. But every time I came into the bookstore and he showed me a new book… I was hooked. He shaped my life, for sure. But… ever since he passed, I haven’t had the heart to reread them.” The words slipped out before I could stop them—raw and unfiltered, like a wound I hadn’t realized was still open.
Cavil’s brow creased slightly, his expression softening. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured, turning to the window as the dark trees blurred past. “Maybe because it feels like losing her all over again. Like… if I read those notes, it’ll break something open I’ve tried too hard to hold together.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just nodded slowly, as if turning my words over in his mind, weighing them against things he maybe hadn’t said aloud either.
“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice low. “Those words hold power. They remind you what’s missing.”
“Exactly.” I let the word linger on my breath. “It’s easier to leave them tucked away than face what they meant.”
Cavil didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t tell me to move on. He just drove—steady and calm—like giving me space was the most honest thing he could offer.
And somewhere between the soft thrum of tires over snow and the moonlight casting silver shadows across the road, something shifted. I didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it: a pull toward memory instead of away from it.
Maybe I wasn’t ready to open those notes yet.
