Jefferson sat on the stairs of his house, staring out into the forest. His fingers played across the uneven scar that encircled his neck. The scar from where he had been beheaded. He kept it covered whenever he dared to venture into public, which he scarcely ever did. But when he was alone, at home, he'd uncover it, run his fingers along it. It was just another memory of a time forgotten. Or not, at least, for him.
There was one person in town that had made it her duty to visit him, to bring him a basket of food, and check in on him. She never seemed to notice that hint of crazy in his eyes, the way his hands trembled as he took hold of hers. She never questioned him about the messy room full of hats, the binoculars and telescope at the window. The first time he let her untie the cravat around his neck, she didn't even dare to question the scar around his neck. She had her own scars she couldn't account for after all.
Her ruby red lips traced the line around the curve of his neck, his fingers tangling in her dark hair. They didn't love each other, they barely knew each other, they were both scarred by the losses of people they had loved. But, together, they found comfort in stroking tender fingers and ghosting feather-like kisses over the scars of their pasts.