Miriam doesn't realize how tightly she's been holding herself until she stands from the café table and doesn't immediately feel the urge to run.
The thought startles her.
She pauses just outside the door, one hand braced against the cool glass, waiting for the familiar rush of panic to catch up with her—waiting for the world to press in until her skin feels too small again.
It doesn't.
The street is still loud. Cars pass too close. Voices overlap and rise and fall without concern for her comfort. But the sharp edge of it all has dulled, as if something inside her has learned how to absorb the noise instead of fighting it.
She draws a breath.
It comes easier than it has all day.
Eli steps out beside her, careful not to crowd her, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He doesn't reach for her. Doesn't speak right away. He simply exists nearby, and somehow that is enough.
"You don't have to do anything," he says finally, as if he can see the calculations flickering behind her eyes. "We can walk. Or sit. Or you can leave, and I won't follow."
Her chest tightens at the last part.
"I don't want you to follow," she says slowly.
He nods, accepting it without flinch. "I figured."
She hesitates, the words gathering before she can stop them. "But I don't want you to disappear either."
Something like relief flickers across his face—not triumph, not satisfaction. Just recognition.
"That's fair," he says.
They walk together without touching, side by side, the space between them intentional. Miriam keeps waiting for the warmth to spike, for the pull to become unbearable.
It doesn't.
Instead, it steadies.
Her body hums, low and calm, like a string finally tuned to the right tension. She hadn't known how far out of alignment she'd been until now.
They pass a group of people gathered outside a storefront, laughter spilling into the street. Miriam flinches at the sudden noise—but only briefly. She notices the scents drifting from them, how most slide past her awareness without catching.
One or two register faintly. Curious. Nothing more.
She slows.
"That used to…" She stops, searching for the right words. "That used to feel like too much."
Eli glances at her. "And now?"
She scans herself honestly. The noise is still noise. The people are still there. But her body isn't bracing for impact.
"Now it feels… manageable."
He nods. "That matters."
They reach a small park at the edge of town. The grass is uneven, the benches worn smooth by years of use. Miriam sinks onto one without thinking, exhaustion settling into her bones now that the constant vigilance has loosened its grip.
Eli sits at the far end of the bench, giving her space.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
Miriam closes her eyes.
The quiet isn't silence. Birds call overhead. Leaves rustle. Somewhere nearby, a child laughs. But the noise no longer scrapes along her nerves.
It settles.
She opens her eyes again, almost afraid the feeling will vanish.
"It's never felt like this before," she says quietly. "Not outside my home. Not anywhere."
"Have you ever felt it inside?" Eli asks.
She thinks of the barn. The way the scent had returned there. The brief moments when the world had felt… balanced.
"Yes," she admits. "Sometimes. But it never lasted."
"Because you were alone," Eli says gently.
She stiffens. "I wasn't alone. I had my family. My community."
"I know," he says. "I don't mean alone like that."
He takes a moment, choosing his words with care. "Some people are built to regulate themselves. Their bodies are quiet by default. They don't notice much difference from one place to another."
Esther's calm face flashes through Miriam's mind. The ease with which she moved through the world. The certainty she wore like a second skin.
"And others?" Miriam asks.
"And others are responsive," Eli says. "The world presses harder on them. Sound, scent, people—everything comes in louder."
Her throat tightens.
"That's the darkening," she whispers.
Eli's jaw tightens just slightly. "That's the name you were given for it."
The distinction lands with quiet force.
"Is it wrong?" Miriam asks.
He meets her gaze steadily. "Does it feel wrong right now?"
Miriam looks inward. The warmth is there, yes—but it isn't frantic. Her senses are alert, but not overwhelmed. Her body feels present, anchored.
"No," she says slowly. "It feels… right."
Eli exhales, like he's been waiting to hear her say it. "Then maybe the problem isn't what you feel. Maybe it's that no one ever taught you how to live with it."
The idea settles into her, heavy and dangerous and strangely comforting all at once.
She thinks of the mornings she woke already tired. Of the prayers that never quite landed. Of the shame that rose so quickly, so easily, whenever her body asked for something more.
"What if I go back?" she asks quietly. "What if I return at the end of this time and nothing has changed there?"
Eli doesn't rush to answer. "Then you'll go back knowing more than you did when you left."
The truth of it settles deep.
A breeze stirs the leaves overhead, carrying the faintest trace of another scent across the park. Miriam tenses—but only briefly. Her body registers it, assesses it, lets it pass.
She blinks, surprised.
"I noticed it," she says. "But it didn't—"
"Pull," Eli finishes.
"Yes."
He nods. "That matters too."
Miriam sits with that, watching light and shadow shift across the ground. For the first time since this began, her thoughts don't spiral immediately toward shame.
Instead, they open.
"I don't know what I'll choose," she admits.
"That's okay," Eli says. "Choice is easier when it's informed."
She meets his eyes, steady now. "Will I see you again?"
His smile is small, certain. "If you want to."
The answer is immediate. Unmistakable.
"Yes," she says.
They part a short while later, no promises made, no plans set. Miriam walks away with the quiet still wrapped around her—not silence, not emptiness, but something truer.
Balance.
And beneath it, a growing certainty that whatever the Church has taught her to fear has never been the full story.