I found a flower tucked into the saddle roll this morning. It wasn’t Henry’s doing. He wouldn’t know an Asphodel from a thistle. No, this was my sister Cipactli. I can feel her presence in the choice. Subtle, watching. She’s always known when I was coming apart—usually before I do.
He was short with me today. Said I was looking at him like he was a storm coming. I told him he was a storm—heat and thunder and wind. He threw a spoon at me.
It clattered against my boot.
I tossed it back. He caught it. And smirked.
By midday, we weren’t speaking again. Not out of anger—just… fatigue. The weight of not saying what needed to be said was wearing both of us raw.
But later, after dinner, he handed me a wildflower he’d picked along the trail. Didn’t say a word. Just dropped it in my lap and sat down beside me.
I didn’t say anything either. But I slid my fingers into his.
He squeezed.
