“And my bells?” she asks.
I swallow “They quiet it.”
The confession hangs between us, impossibly small for the weight it carries.
“I own dozens of them,” I continue. “Every autumn, I buy another. I carry them across Protheka. Mountains. Coastlines. Cities that never sleep. Your bells travel everywhere with me.”
Her lips part but no sound emerges.
“They create pockets of silence,” I say. “Moments where the world becomes survivable.”
The rain slows. The forge drips quietly around us.
Roseth looks away first. Her gaze settles on the warped beam above the doorway. On the damage left by the storm.
“You carried them across the continent,” she says softly.
“Yes.” I nod.
“Just… to hear them.”
“Yes.” I nod again.
Her throat moves as she swallows.
“That is the strangest compliment anyone has ever given me.”
I do not trust myself to answer.
She turns toward the ladder. Grabs it with quick decisive movements. “Well. Since you can apparently hold buildings together with invisible humming, you can help me fix the roof.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You broke it.” she accuses with a sharp gaze.
“The storm broke it.” I respond but she doesn't seem interested in it.
“You stabilized it. That makes you responsible for the aftermath.” She does not look back to see if I follow but I do.
Repair work demands proximity.
Wood must be lifted together. Nails must be passed hand to hand. Tools exchanged without dropping them onto the street below.
Roseth moves with fierce efficiency. Damp curls cling to her neck. Her sleeves roll past her elbows. Soot smudges the edge of her jaw where rain could not reach.
“Hold that beam steady,” she instructs.
I brace the wood. She climbs the ladder beside me, close enough that heat from her skin cuts through the chill left by the storm.
Her voice lowers as she measures the split in the support.
“It is worse than I thought.”
She speaks softly when she concentrates.
The pressure inside my skull eases without warning.
Her voice again, closer this time. “Nail.”
