The morning of their departure was marked by a mist so thick it felt like the cottage was being erased from the map. Grayson stood on the porch, his boots already laced, his posture vibrating with a strange, contained restlessness. He wasn't watching the woods for threats; he was watching the front door, waiting for Mailah to step out so they could begin the systematic process of leaving.
When she finally emerged, clutching her shawl, he didn't offer a morning greeting. He offered a schedule.
"We leave in one hour," he said, his voice clipped. "The transport is due at the station at ten. If we miscalculate the mud on the lower trail, we lose twenty minutes. If we lose twenty minutes, we miss the first connection."
Mailah leaned against the doorframe, watching him. He was back in his traveling coat, his shoulders squared, the effortless grace of the last few days replaced by the precise, rigid efficiency of his old life.
"You're counting the minutes," she noted, amused.
