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The bronze heart in the square had a way of catching late light and giving it back in softer pieces. John sat on the bench facing the fountain, hands folded, breath steady, watching the spray turn gold then clear then gold again. He had swept and scrubbed and put the little house to rights until it felt like a place that could hold a future without wincing. Now he waited, one palm over the pocket where the twin stone rested warm.
Sera came like the answer to a question he had asked the city under his breath. White temple linen beneath an academy mantle, hair braided simply, a ribbon at her wrist the color of earned sunsets. People turned their heads without meaning to. She did not feed the glances. She walked straight to him, a line drawn by an honest hand.
"You made it," he said.
"I could not not make it," she said, the smile beginning in her eyes before it reached her mouth.
