The bell above the bakery door jingled as Nora stepped inside, brushing rain from her coat. The scent of warm bread and sugared apples wrapped around her like a memory. For a moment, she let herself breathe.
She hadn't been in Miss Hale's shop since she was a teenager. Back then, she'd come in with her mother on market days, a lace-gloved hand resting lightly on her arm. They'd ordered lemon tarts. Always lemon.
Miss Hale looked up from behind the counter, her smile cautious. "Miss Whitmore."
"Just Nora, please."
There was a pause. "You're looking well."
Nora offered a polite nod and moved to the shelves. Behind her, quiet murmurs bloomed like fog.
Two women by the window whispered behind gloved hands. One of them gave a thin-lipped smile when Nora glanced her way.
She selected a loaf and approached the counter.
Miss Hale wrapped it carefully. "Strange weather for spring," she offered.
"Fitting, I suppose."
Another pause. Then, gently: "They say you've been spending time at the forge."
Nora met her eyes.
Miss Hale's tone wasn't cruel. But it wasn't neutral, either.
"They say a lot of things," Nora replied, voice steady.
Miss Hale said nothing more, just handed her the bread. Nora turned to leave and heard the whisper behind her:
"Just like her mother. First scandal, now shame."
The bell jingled as she left, walking quickly into the drizzle. The bread felt heavier in her hands than it should have.
---
James was waiting at the edge of the willow grove when she found him. The fog clung to the ground like a second skin. The nearly-finished carriage stood nearby, wheels aligned, the crest polished but still scarred.
"I brought the bread," she said, holding it out.
He took it with a nod but said nothing.
"I went into town today," she added after a pause.
"I heard."
Nora raised an eyebrow. "News travels fast."
"Gossip travels faster."
He turned, facing the trees. The air between them felt thick.
"I'm not ashamed," she said, quietly.
"Neither am I."
A silence.
"But?"
James exhaled. "This town doesn't forget. It clings to stories like rust to iron. Once it sets in, it doesn't let go."
"They say I'm like my mother," Nora said, voice low. "They never forgave her either. For marrying my father. For being too loud. Too foreign."
James looked at her, really looked.
"I never knew her."
"You would've liked her," she said. "She didn't care what people thought… but she also never stopped hearing them."
She stepped closer.
"You don't have to protect me, James. I've lived with silence long enough to know how to survive it."
He reached out without thinking, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek.
"I'm not worried about you surviving," he said. "I'm worried about what it'll cost you to stay."
Her breath caught. "Maybe I'm tired of leaving."
A pause. The weight of old names, old grief, old battles hovered in the mist between them.
He leaned in, just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Then let them talk."