When the last piece turned to ash, Silas spoke.
"You can stay here," he said. "As long as you need."
The woman did not answer.
She only watched the fire until the last letter disappeared.
Her name, Silas would soon learn, was Faith.
Faith slept through most of the next day.
Silas checked on her twice, but never woke her.
She lay curled beneath the thick wool blanket on the narrow bed in the spare room, breathing deep and steady.
The exhaustion of 40 hard miles through open country had finally claimed its price.
Her body needed rest more than anything else.
Silas stepped quietly away each time he looked in.
The cabin stayed silent for most of that day.
Outside, the rain faded and the clouds slowly drifted away from the valley.
By evening, the sky turned clear again, leaving the land washed clean and quiet.
When morning came, Silas woke to something he had not smelled in years.
Cornbread.
The scent drifted through the cabin, warm and comforting, filling every corner of the small house.
Silas sat up slowly, confused for a moment.
Then he heard the soft sound of pans moving against the stove.
He walked into the front room and stopped in the doorway.
Faith stood by the stove with her hair pinned neatly back and an old apron tied around her waist.
The sleeves of her dress were rolled to her elbows as she carefully lifted a cast-iron skillet from the heat.
The table had been wiped clean.
The basin was empty.
Every dish had been washed and stacked neatly on the shelf.
For the first time in years, the cabin looked like someone truly lived there.
Faith glanced back over her shoulder.
"I don't take charity," she said calmly. "I work for my keep."
Silas pulled out a chair and sat at the table without answering.
She placed a thick piece of cornbread in front of him.
It tasted like something he had not known for a very long time.
Home.
The days that followed passed quietly.
Faith worked from morning until evening with calm determination.
She scrubbed the floors and wiped dust from the windows.
She mended shirts that Silas had forgotten he owned.
She repaired a loose board near the door and patched a tear in one of the blankets.
Silas watched her sometimes from the doorway or from the yard.
She moved with purpose but never wasted motion.
Still, something behind her eyes remained closed off.
A quiet sadness lived there, hidden deep where no one else could reach.
Ten days passed before she asked him for anything.
They were sitting at the table eating breakfast when she finally spoke.
"Mr. Silas?"
He looked up from his coffee.
"Yes?"
She hesitated only a moment.
"May I plant some flowers beside the porch?"
The question caught him off guard.
No one had asked him for something so small in years.
He shrugged lightly.
"Plant whatever you want."
That afternoon, Silas worked near the fence while Faith knelt in the dirt beside the porch steps.
She used an old hand spade to dig small holes carefully along the edge of the boards.
The morning sun caught her hair, turning it soft bronze as she worked.
She hummed quietly while she planted each seed.
Silas told himself he was fixing the fence.
He told himself he was not watching her.