Chapter Thirteen: Quiet Promises
It was a slow Sunday.
Sunlight came in through the window like honey.
You were curled on the worn armchair near the poetry shelf, your knees tucked close, a book resting more on your chest than in your hands.
I sat on the floor beside you, close enough that your ankle brushed my arm when you shifted.
We weren’t speaking. Just… existing.
Then you said, without looking up,
“Do you think we’ll ever leave this place?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Just let the question settle like dust in a sunbeam.
Then I said,
“Maybe someday. But wherever we go, I’ll still wake up and look for your cup next to mine.”
You closed the book. Pressed it against your chest.
And whispered,
“Even if the shop fades?”
“Even if the city does,” I said.
You looked at me then — full, clear, still.
And smiled like someone who’d finally heard the ending of a story they’d been waiting on for years.
“I won’t need a vow,” you said.
“But if you stay…”
I leaned forward, touching my forehead to yours like I had the day you first said it.
“I’ll stay,” I said. “And stay. And stay.”
That was our promise.
No rings.
No witness.
Just two people…
…and a light that never needed electricity.