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"Where will you go?" she asked.
"West. My aunt needs help with her orchard."
"You fell over instead."
Years later, in a dusty apartment far from any farm, Elias still kept that straw in a glass vial on his windowsill. It wasn't much. But some things—a hayloft, a kiss—are enough to carry a lifetime.
They laughed—a small, sad sound.
Then she leaned in. Not a hurried thing. A slow lean, like dusk settling. Her hand on his cheek. Her lips on his.
"Remember when we were sixteen?" she whispered. "You dared me to jump down into the cow stall."
He sat in the hay, boots dangling over the edge, and pulled out a folded letter. Her handwriting. Meet me in the haylo. One last time.