By the time she returned, the square was almost empty. The notice had done its work—its silence louder than any bell. She read it once more, though she didn't need to. The words had already carved themselves into her.
One person from each family. No names, no exemptions.
It wasn't a warning. It was a verdict.
And there was no space left for bargains, no mercy hidden in the ink.
She walked home without meeting anyone's eyes. Her fists curled tight, nails carving crescent moons into her palms.
The doorway creaked.
He stirred, though his eyes barely opened.
"You're late," he rasped, voice thick with sleep. "The sun's overhead."
"It's not," she said, moving to the water pot.
"You stitched it, didn't you? My shirt?"
A cough shook him. He propped himself halfway against the wall, trying for a smile.
"Of course," she said, handing him the cup. "I even matched the thread to your usual mood—completely dull and unremarkable."
He grinned weakly. "Perfect. Now I can impress the centipedes."
She froze.
He didn't notice— not fully—only the faint shift in her eyes.
"I was joking," he said softly.
"I know." She set the cup down. "I'll fetch herbs later."
As she turned, his fingers brushed her wrist.
"Sit a little."
She hesitated. Her mind was still in the square, with the notice, with the words she couldn't let him see. But his touch—frail, pleading—held her. So she sat.
Outside, heat baked the roofs. Inside, their words stayed small, their glances long.
"How's your chest?" she asked.
"Hurts when I breathe."
"Then stop breathing."
"Only if you stop worrying."
She didn't answer.
His head tilted slightly. "What was in the square?"
"Just ration lists."
He studied her, but said nothing more. His eyes closed again, lashes lowering like leaves too easily lifted by wind.
She stayed until his breath fell light. Then laid her palm against his chest—not to wake, not to disturb, only to remember the rhythm.
That night, she didn't sleep.
(The rules demanded one person from each household go to the frontlines. Normally, it was expected to be a man, not a woman—but Asha knew that sending him, frail and sick, would almost certainly mean death. No one had survived this path before; it was untested, unforgiving. So she made the choice silently, stepping where custom said she shouldn't.)