Chapter 25 – September 1916 – Secret sorrows of which the world knows not

When she came down the road, he was waiting on the steps. His house keys were in his coat pocket, and anyway he'd known she would be bringing it back. That's just who she was. And while Henry didn't typically believe in fate or "signs" or whatever people wanted to call them, there had been too many of them that day that even a skeptic like him knew that his time was up.

The night was silent save Abigail's boots on the dirt. The saloon was too far for the music to carry, and it was still too early for anyone else to have left the dance – everyone other than a damaged old man and the woman cursed to care about him anyway. Her soft steps came nearer, approaching in a slow rhythm, until she stood framed in the porch's light.

"You forgot your coat," she said simply. He could see now his hat was underneath too, having been cradled against her chest.

All manners dictated that he should stand up, take it from her, tip his head and say "much obliged." But he couldn't do any of it – not yet. She held the bundle out in front of her for three, maybe four seconds, then laid it on the stone step In front of him. She didn't leave. He'd stupidly hoped she would, but had known she wouldn't. Ironic, really.

After a beat or two, when he could will himself to move again, he reached down and pulled the coat up onto his lap. At the bottom of its lining was a row of stitches that didn't quite match the rest. He ran his thumb over it, able to find the familiar spot along the seam without searching. That line was the thing that made him reach for the cover of this coat over and over again. It was closed eyes and neat whiskeys in an empty house and memories retraced so many times they had lost their shapes. It was the sound of his heart breaking, the temporary indulgence of an endlessly resurfacing sorrow, allowing it to be felt in order to survive another day of pretending it wasn't there. It was his cross.

"My letter...," he started blindly. He needed to force the words out before they disappeared. "My letter made its way back to me today. I've spent six years wrestling with what's in that letter. I don't know if I'll ever win that fight. But today, with everything out in the open, talking to Bill and Elizabeth… well, it felt a little less hopeless."

His breath shook. Abigail 's expression was open and caring as she stood listening. God, he didn't want to look at her. He wouldn't get through this if he did.

"Anyway, it's got me thinking that, if I'm ever going to make a real go at it here… well, then I suppose I had better be honest with you."

"Alright," she said.

The gentleness of it did nothing to hide the expectation in her voice, crisp and daunting in the absence of other sounds. Carefully, regretfully, he looked at her. The tiny crease between her brows was not enough to overshadow the bright anticipation of her eyes. He took another deep breath.

"You should come inside," he said.

ooo

The lights were dim, the same way they had been the last time she'd been here. Years ago now, when she'd taken the mayor's job from him - or at least that being the way he saw it. That was the day she had told him she wanted a new start for them. It wasn't very curious she should think of that conversation now. She was always thinking of it, really.

Tonight, he seemed at a loss, seeking out homes for his coat and hat as though he didn't return them to the same place every evening. Her heart was pounding as he fidgeted and prepared, appearing not to know what to do with her now that he had invited her up. It already felt like ages since they'd come in, discomfort practically radiating from his body as he'd followed behind her on the steps. He had progressed from there only as far as the hearth, where he was now bent over and lighting a fire.

"Henry, what are you doing?" she finally asked, struggling to keep the impatience from her voice.

He grunted. "We're going to need some time and I thought you might be cold," he said, continuing to poke at the logs.

She laughed, finding this all a bit absurd. "I'll tell you when I'm cold, Henry. The cold doesn't bother me, remember?"

Henry stopped. His back stiffened, and the poker went still. She'd broken the rules again, she realized. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it might somehow take her back in time. From where he leaned over the fire his voice traveled up to her, the words barely above a whisper.

"I remember."

Her eyes eased open again, finding Henry staring down into the now-crackling fire.

"That's the thing of it, Abigail. These past couple years, with things getting better, I convinced myself that we were building something different. Something… unconnected to the past. There were so many demons to face every day, and I suppose I let myself get… weak," he said, gritting his teeth against the word. "But I always remember."

She was having a hard time breathing now. "Henry…"

"And I don't think – " He hesitated; she could hear the lump in his throat as he tried again. "I don't think there's a way around it anymore. It hurts too much to keep going like this, and maybe it's for the best."

Abigail thought he would turn to her now. That after what felt like a lifetime of silence and pretenses, she would finally hear his version of what had passed between them all those years ago. That he would whip the curtains back, revealing in a sweep of a smile that somehow it had all been done for her own good. Instead he walked out of the room, disappearing into a dark hallway.

She blinked, utterly lost. She didn't think she was supposed to follow him, so she stood looking helplessly around the sparse sitting room. He still hadn't taken her coat.

When his footsteps approached again, she straightened up, overtaken by the need to brace herself or look unaffected or look… something for him. But when he came out, she was even more confused.

"Your letter?" she asked.

He shook his head. The paper trembled in his hands as he wordlessly held it out to her. She could see that it was faded, its creases delicate, the folds nearly worn through from continuously revealing its contents and then hiding them away once more. She took the page gently from his fingers into hers, still unsure of its importance. His voice came in a low rasp as she carefully lifted the softened edges.

"Yours," he said.