Chapter 12: A Fragile Peace
The light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, the air cooling with the approach of evening. Daryl stood a few paces away from the wall, his knife in hand as he demonstrated its balance to Laurent. The boy stood beside him, his eyes narrowed in concentration, mimicking Daryl's stance with a smaller, dulled blade they'd scavenged from the house.
"You wanna keep your wrist steady," Daryl said, gesturing as he adjusted Laurent's grip. "Aim with your shoulder, not your arm. Like this." He pulled back and released the knife with a flick of his wrist. It struck the wooden post a few feet away with a satisfying thunk.
Laurent's eyes widened. "You make it look so easy," he muttered, gripping his blade tightly as he stepped forward.
"It ain't about strength," Daryl replied, crossing his arms as he watched. "It's control. Don't overthink it—just let it fly."
Laurent nodded, determination etched into his face as he drew back and hurled the knife. It wobbled in the air before landing hilt-first against the post and falling to the grass with a soft thud.
"Better," Daryl said with a small nod. "You're gettin' there. Try again."
The boy's lips pressed into a thin line as he picked up the knife and returned to his spot. He adjusted his grip, took a deep breath, and threw again. This time, the blade stuck in the post—crooked, but there.
Laurent grinned, his excitement breaking through his usual reserved demeanor. "I did it!"
Daryl gave a rare, faint smile and nodded approvingly. "That's more like it." He clapped Laurent lightly on the shoulder. "Couple more throws, then call it a night. Can't hit nothin' if you can't see it."
The boy nodded, determination clear on his face as he retrieved the knife and stepped back into position. The blade bounced off the post and fell to the grass.
The smell of wood smoke drifted through the air, and Daryl glanced over his shoulder toward the fire that had been lit in the middle of the courtyard. A small group had gathered there, their voices low as the flames crackled and popped. The fire cast flickering light across the old stone walls, illuminating the relaxed faces of the others.
As the fire grew brighter against the deepening twilight, Daryl finally signaled for Laurent to call it a night. The boy reluctantly handed the knife back, his energy still buzzing as he wandered toward the fire.
Carol was sitting on a bench next to Etienne, and she waved him over, scooting to make room beside her.
Daryl lingered for a moment, his gaze scanning the courtyard, always looking for anything out of place.
"You been giving him lessons?" Carol asked, her tone light.
"Somethin' like that," Daryl muttered as he walked over and crouched by the fire, his knees drawn up as he rested his forearms on them.
"I'm not very good at it yet." Laurent said, a hint of defeat in his voice as he sat on the bench beside Carol.
"Nah, but you'll get it. Just takes practice." Daryl said, turning and letting the fire warm his back.
The temperature had dropped as the sun passed over the horizon, the air already starting to feel brisk with the breeze. He unrolled his sleeves, pulling them down against the chill, watching silently as the firelight danced over the faces of those around him. It was rare to see this — people unwinding, sharing a quiet moment. Usually, it was all tension, all survival.
He turned to face the fire, settling down cross-legged on the ground, leaning back slightly on his hands. The warmth of the flames spread across his face and chest, a stark contrast to the cool air at his back.
The door to the common room creaked open, and Benoit stepped out, holding a guitar by the neck. His steps were cautious as he approached the fire, his eyes flicking between the faces gathered there.
Their gaze followed him as he quietly sat down on an overturned crate near the fire.
He began strumming softly, testing the strings, the melody tentative at first before settling into something steadier. The sound filled the courtyard, threading its way through the crackle of the fire and the quiet murmurs of the group. Heads turned toward him, and a few voices fell silent as the music took over.
Daryl watched silently, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. He didn't recognize the song, but there was something grounding about the soft, easy rhythm Ben played. It felt like a piece of the world they'd lost, unearthed for just a moment.
Ben closed his eyes as he played, his fingers moving more confidently over the strings now. The melody shifted into something familiar, though none of them could quite name it. It was just enough to stir a faint sense of nostalgia, a feeling of warmth beyond the fire.
Daryl had a flash of memory — from when he was a boy, he and Merle were on one of their many camping trips, how they spent most of their weekends. A crackly old tune playing from the small stereo as they sat around a fire. Merle, already drunk and trying to light a cigarette, swearing as he realized he'd lit the wrong end. He smoked it anyway.
The creak of the courtyard door caught his attention, and his eyes shifted toward the figure stepping into the firelight. Isabelle appeared, wrapped in a shawl, her steps careful and deliberate. Her hair was damp, curling slightly from the bath, and her pale features were softened by the warm glow of the flames.
She paused at the edge of the circle, her eyes scanning the group before landing on Daryl. He gave her a small nod, jerking his chin slightly to invite her over.
She moved slowly, her steps light, and made her way toward him. He adjusted his position slightly, shifting to make space as she carefully lowered herself onto the ground beside him. The fire cast a warm light on her features, softening the hard edges that their life had carved into her.
Her shoulder brushed against his, and she gave him a faint smile, her eyes glinting from the flickering flames.
"You alright?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"I'm fine," she murmured, adjusting the shawl around her. "I wanted to come out. It's been a while since I've felt… this."
Daryl tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. "This?"
She gestured faintly toward the fire, the group, the gentle strumming of the guitar. "A moment that doesn't feel like we're constantly running or fighting."
He nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she leaned into him slightly, her shoulder pressing more firmly against his. Daryl stiffened for just a moment, his instinct to pull away warring with something quieter, something that told him to stay.
Her weight was light, but steady. He didn't move, letting the moment settle around them, the faint notes of the guitar carrying on the cool evening breeze.
Daryl's eyes stayed on the fire, but his awareness was focused on Isabelle beside him—the soft weight of her leaning against him, the faint scent of soap lingering from her bath, the way her breath fell in slow, even rhythms.
For the first time in what felt like years, he allowed himself to stop thinking, stop planning, stop worrying about what was coming next.
Just for tonight.
The fire had burned low, glowing embers casting a faint, flickering glow across the courtyard. The quiet strumming of the guitar had long since stopped, and the soft murmur of conversation had faded into silence. One by one, those gathered began to rise, stretching stiff limbs and murmuring goodnights before heading back inside.
Carol gave a stretch, her arms overhead as she stood. She glanced at Daryl, still sitting on the ground by the fire, his gaze fixed on the embers. "Guess we'll see what tomorrow brings," she said, her voice tinged with weariness.
Daryl gave a small nod, pushing himself to his feet. His knees cracked as he stood, and he muttered something under his breath.
Carol smirked. "That's the sound of age, Dixon."
He huffed but didn't respond, brushing off his hands. Carol shook her head, chuckling softly as she walked toward the building. Daryl reached down, kicking at a loose log to shift it into the embers. Sparks flared briefly before fading back into the dark. Isabelle stood slowly, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.
"I should head up," she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
Daryl nodded, brushing ash off his hands. Isabelle lingered for a moment, her gaze on the dimly glowing embers. Finally, she turned toward the house, her steps light as she moved toward the door. Daryl followed a few paces behind, his boots scuffing against the worn stones of the courtyard.
Inside, the house was silent, save for the faint creaks of the old floorboards beneath their steps as they ascended the stairs. Moonlight streamed through a cracked window at the end of the hallway, tracing delicate patterns on the walls. The room was bathed in a soft, silvery glow, the moonlight casting gentle shadows across the bed.
Daryl closed the door behind them, the soft click echoing in the quiet. He moved to the chair, shrugging out of his suspenders.
"You take the bed," Daryl said gruffly, his gaze flicking toward the floor near the fireplace, where he seemed ready to settle.
"Don't be silly. There's no need for that." Daryl hesitated, his brow furrowing as he weighed her words. "What's different now? Than before?" She said and he glanced up at her, her question catching him off guard. She stood by the bed, her arms crossed lightly, the faintest smile touching her lips.
"I dunno… you're awake now. So I didn't want to.." Daryl's voice trailed off, uncertainty flickering in his eyes as his right hand fidgeted at his side. Isabelle watched him for a moment, her expression softening as the corners of her lips curved into a gentle smile.
"You were welcome there then," she said quietly, her tone reassuring. "As much as you're welcome there now."
He shifted his weight, his hand dropping to his side as he looked toward the floor, still hesitant. "Just figured you'd want some space."
Isabelle shook her head, her hair falling loosely around her face. "I don't need space, Daryl," she said, her voice steady. "Not from you."
His jaw tightened, and he glanced at her again, his brow furrowing as if trying to gauge her sincerity. The room was quiet, the faint creak of the house settling filling the space between them.
Finally, he muttered, "Alright," and moved toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. He hesitated for a moment before sitting down on the edge, his shoulders stiff as if the simple act of taking her offer was a battle in itself.
Isabelle smiled faintly, pulling back the blanket on her side as she slipped beneath it. She turned slightly, watching as Daryl leaned down to untie his boots, setting them under the edge of the bed before stretching out on top of the covers.
"You don't have to sleep like that," she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You're allowed to be comfortable too, you know."
Daryl huffed a quiet laugh, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "I'm fine," he muttered, though he adjusted his position slightly, resting one arm behind his head as he lay back.
Isabelle watched him for a moment, her faint smile lingering. The tension in his frame was still evident, though he seemed to relax slightly as he settled in. She pulled the blanket up a little higher, her head resting against the pillow as she turned to face him. She studied his face in the darkness, her eyes lingering on the lines etched into his features. The ruggedness that had become as much a part of him as the quiet strength he carried.
"You're always carrying the weight of everything," she said softly, almost to herself, her voice barely breaking the stillness. "Do you ever let it go, even for a moment?"
Daryl's eyes opened, his gaze shifting to meet hers in the dim light. There was a pause, the kind that seemed to stretch out as he considered her words. "What d'ya mean?"
Isabelle hesitated, her gaze steady but gentle as she searched his face for a moment longer. "I mean," she began softly, "you're always watching, always protecting, always… carrying everything."
Daryl's brow furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening as her words settled over him. "I ain't never had a choice." His gaze dropped for a moment, his fingers toyed with one of the buttons on the front of his shirt. "I've spent my whole life having to carry everything that was mine to carry." he admitted, his voice low and rough, almost as if he were confessing a weakness.
For a moment, it seemed like he had said all he was going to say. Isabelle didn't press, but the gentleness in her gaze lingered. Then, with a deep breath, he began, his voice low and hesitant.
"When I was growing up, my dad wasn't ever around," he said, staring at the ceiling as he spoke. "And when he was, it was… better when he wasn't." His jaw tightened, and he shifted again, clearly uncomfortable with revisiting the memories. "He drank too much. When he wasn't drinkin', he was fuckin' pissed about somethin'else. Took it out on me or Merle—whoever was in reach."
Isabelle stayed quiet, her hands resting gently on the blanket as she listened. Daryl's voice grew quieter, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her.
"Mom wasn't much better. She wasn't around even when she was. Always on pills. I don't even think she remembered half the time that she had kids. She'd get us to donate blood just so she'd have money for her next fix. 'Course, Merle wouldn't let her do it to him after a while, so it was mostly me."
His words flowed out of him like an open wound and Isabelle's heart twisted at the weight of them, the raw honesty in them cutting through the stillness of the room. He continued, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling.
"And then when Merle went off to the military it just got worse. Dad… he didn't have no one else to take his shit out on. Spent most of my time out in the woods… learned to track… hunt. Take a ass whoopin."
The rawness in Daryl's voice hung heavy in the air, and Isabelle felt the ache in her chest grow deeper with each word. He wasn't just recounting his past—he was peeling back layers of himself, exposing parts he'd likely buried long ago.
She stayed quiet, letting him continue at his own pace.
"Out there… in the woods," he said, his voice quieter now, "it was the only place I felt like I could breathe. Didn't have to look over my shoulder. Didn't have to worry about sayin' the wrong thing, doin' the wrong thing…" His voice trailed off for a moment, and his brow furrowed. "Out there, it was just me."
Isabelle's eyes remained steady on him, her heart heavy with unspoken empathy. "You survived," she said softly, her voice steady but warm. "Because of you. Not because of them."
Daryl's jaw tightened, his gaze flicking away as he processed her words. "I guess," he muttered, though his tone held no conviction. "Don't really think about it much anymore. Ain't no use in it. We're all out here just trying to survive now."
Isabelle's expression softened, and she shifted slightly, her head resting on her hand as she watched him. "Maybe," she said quietly, "but there's more to life than just surviving. Or… there should be."
Daryl's gaze flicked back to her, his brow furrowing slightly as Carol's words to him came flooding back: "At some point… we have to stop just surviving, and focus on living." The echo of her voice felt too coincidental, and he wondered briefly if there was any way Isabelle could've heard that conversation in her unconscious state.
"Maybe." he muttered to himself, shaking the thought away. Still, the similarity gnawed at him, pulling at the edges of his guarded mind. He worked his bottom lip between his teeth as the weight of her words—and Carol's—pressed down on him, unsettling something he couldn't quite name. "Been survivin' my whole life. Feels like it's all I'm good at."
Her eyes were steady on him. "Maybe that's true," she said, her voice even, thoughtful. "But it doesn't mean it's all there is."
Her words hung in the air between them, quiet but insistent. Daryl's jaw clenched, his hands fidgeting with the fabric of his shirt. "Ain't good at lettin' people in," he admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant. "Ain't good at any of this."
Isabelle's smile was faint but warm, her gaze unwavering. "You're better at it than you think," she said simply. "You just don't see it."
Her words hit him harder than he expected, cutting through layers he wasn't ready to confront. He looked at her, searching for something—doubt, insincerity, anything that might let him dismiss her words. But there was nothing there except quiet conviction.
For a moment, he didn't respond. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned back against the pillow, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "Don't know how to be anything else," he murmured, his voice tinged with something that felt like resignation.
"Maybe you don't have to be," Isabelle said, her voice gentle but firm. "Maybe it's not about being something else. Maybe it's about finding the parts of you that have been there all along. The parts you don't let yourself see."
Daryl's brow furrowed slightly, her words striking a chord he didn't know existed. He stared at the ceiling, the dim light of the moon casting faint patterns on the worn wood. Her voice was soft, steady, and yet it carried a weight that settled in the quiet space between them.
Isabelle's smile was faint but unwavering, the warmth in her gaze softening the edges of his doubt. "You've survived things most people couldn't even imagine," she said. "That takes strength—not just the kind that keeps you alive, but the kind that keeps you human." She shifted slightly, her head tilting as she studied him. "That part of you, Daryl—it's there. Even if you can't see it, even if you've buried it deep—it's still there."
He huffed softly, a humorless sound, and shook his head. "You don't know me."
"Don't I?" she asked gently, her voice carrying no judgment, only quiet understanding. "I've seen the way you protect Laurent, the way you care for Carol. The way you stayed with me, even when you didn't have to. You call that surviving, but to me, it looks a lot like living."
Daryl shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her words pressing against defenses he wasn't ready to let down. He glanced at her again, the raw sincerity in her eyes making it hard to look away. "Don't feel like livin'," he muttered. "Feels like just gettin' by."
Isabelle's expression softened further, her voice dropping even lower. "Maybe that's the first step," she said. "Maybe 'getting by' is how you start. And then, little by little, you find the pieces of yourself you thought were gone. The parts that make life more than just surviving."
He didn't respond right away, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as her words sank in. The room felt too quiet, the stillness amplifying everything he was trying not to think about. Finally, he exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"Maybe," he muttered, though his tone was far from certain. "Ain't easy to see it that way."
"It's not supposed to be easy," Isabelle said, her voice soft but steady. "But it's worth it… You're worth it."
Her words hung in the air, delicate yet unyielding, and for the first time in a long while, Daryl didn't have a retort.
Isabelle shifted, her movements soft and deliberate. One of her hands emerged from beneath the blanket, her fingers brushing lightly against his before wrapping gently around his hand. The warmth of her touch was a quiet reassurance, steady and unspoken.
Daryl froze for a moment, his fingers twitching slightly beneath hers before relaxing. Slowly, he let his fingers entwine with hers, the rough calluses of his palm a stark contrast to her softer touch. His eyes remained on the ceiling, but the tension in his body eased ever so slightly, a subtle shift that didn't go unnoticed.
Isabelle's thumb moved in a small, reassuring circle against the back of his hand. "It doesn't make you weaker, you know," she said gently, her voice soft in the quiet room. "Letting someone share the weight."
He turned his head just enough to glance at her, his eyes shadowed but searching. For a fleeting second, something unspoken passed between them—a tentative understanding, fragile yet steady.
"Maybe," he murmured, his voice barely audible, but his fingers stayed laced with hers, holding on just a little tighter.
As Daryl's breathing evened out, Isabelle let her gaze linger on the faint outlines of his face, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight slipping through the window. His features, so often hardened and guarded, seemed softer now, the lines etched by years of struggle less pronounced in his quiet repose. It struck her how rare this was—to see him without the weight of the world pressing down on him. Her eyes traveled over his face; his eyes, the scar that ran down his cheek, his mouth.
Her fingers remained entwined with his, the rough texture of his palm grounding her in a way she hadn't expected. She couldn't help but marvel at the contrast—his strength, so evident in every move he made, tempered now by a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface. She hadn't anticipated the depth of it, or how it would make her feel protective in a way she wasn't accustomed to. She could only guess that the number of people who'd seen this side of Daryl were few to none.
Her gaze shifted briefly to their hands, the way his fingers rested against hers, their differences stark but fitting. She wondered how many times he'd done this for others—been their anchor, their shield—without expecting anything in return. She could sense how foreign it must feel for him to have someone offer the same in return.
She studied his face again, the faint furrow in his brow that hadn't quite eased even in sleep. It was like he was still braced for a fight, even here, even now. A pang of sorrow tugged at her chest as she realized how deeply ingrained his instincts were. She imagined him as a young boy, bruised and battered, only finding solace deep in the woods. Always fighting, always on the defense. It was no wonder why this was all foreign territory to him. In every sense of the word. He was no more at home around the people that he encountered through his journey, than he was here, in a country a world away from everything he'd ever known.
Her mind wandered to their earlier conversation. The way he spoke of his past, so matter-of-fact, as if he'd convinced himself it didn't matter anymore. But it did. She could feel the echoes of it in the way he carried himself, in the walls he built to keep everyone out. And yet, here he was, letting her in, even if just a little. She would take what he was willing to give her. The pull of him reached deep within her, into places she hadn't known existed, places she couldn't explain. It was a quiet, steady thing—unspoken but undeniable. When she first found him, collapsed in the grass and teetering on the edge of death, she never could have imagined things playing out the way they had.
Back then, he was just another soul to save, another life to protect in a world that seemed intent on taking everything from them. She hadn't thought about what it would mean to let him into her life, or how his presence would come to shape it. Yet, somehow, he'd become a constant, a grounding force she hadn't realized she needed.
Isabelle's gaze flicked to the faint scar on his temple, a reminder of how close he'd come to slipping away that day. She remembered the panic that had surged through her when she'd first seen him, the determination that had driven her to act. At the time, she thought it was simple compassion—helping someone because it was the right thing to do. But now she wondered if it had been something more. Something she hadn't yet understood.
The man lying beside her now wasn't the same as the one she'd found in that field. He'd softened in ways she hadn't thought possible, though she knew he'd never see it that way. To him, he was still just surviving, still fighting to get through each day. But to her, he was so much more. He was strength and vulnerability wrapped into one, a mix of contradictions that drew her in and kept her tethered.
Isabelle's thumb moved absently over his hand, the motion more for herself than for him. She wasn't sure how to articulate the gratitude she felt—for his trust, for his presence, for the way he'd stayed by her side even when she'd been at her weakest. She wasn't sure she'd earned it, but she wanted to try. To prove to him, somehow, that he wasn't alone. That he didn't always have to be the one carrying everything.
Her thoughts drifted to what he'd said about surviving, about how it was all he knew. She couldn't help but think about her own struggles, the way she'd clung to survival as if it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. But now, lying here beside him, she felt something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time—hope. Fragile and uncertain, but real.
Her eyes flicked back to his face, the faint rise and fall of his chest calming her own restless thoughts. She reached out with her free hand, moving carefully so as not to wake him. Her fingers hesitated just over the skin of his cheek. She wanted to touch him. She craved it.
Her fingers hovered for a moment, her breath catching in her chest. The closeness of him was both comforting and overwhelming. Finally, she let her fingertips graze his skin, feather-light, a hesitant act of tenderness she wasn't sure she had the right to give.
The rough texture of his stubble beneath her fingertips sent a quiet ache through her, and her touch lingered, barely there, as if she feared he might pull away even in sleep. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw with a feather-light touch, and just as she paused at the edge of his chin, she heard a soft, sleepy rumble from his throat.
"What're you doin'?" Daryl's voice was low, throaty and roughened by sleep, and his eyes blinked open slowly, his eyelids heavy, shadowed and unreadable in the dim light.
Isabelle froze, her breath hitching as she met his gaze. "I—" she started, her voice faltering, unsure of what to say. Her fingers hovered over his skin, as if caught between retreating and staying.
Daryl didn't pull away. He didn't shift or break the stillness between them. Instead, his eyes searched hers, his expression unguarded in the quiet vulnerability of the moment. "You don't gotta stop," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
His words, simple and raw, undid something in her. The tension she'd been holding onto unraveled, and before she could second-guess herself, Isabelle leaned in. Her hand cupped his cheek now, firmer, as her lips pressed softly against his.
The kiss was tentative at first, a gentle meeting of two souls searching for solace in the chaos of their world. His lips were warm, rough with the wear of countless battles, but they softened against hers in a way that made her chest ache.
Daryl froze for a moment, as if unsure of what to do, before his hand came up, tentative and slow, sliding up and around to the back of her neck. His touch grounded her, and she deepened the kiss slightly, her breath mingling with his.
The moment stretched between them, fragile and electric, as if the entire world had paused to witness their connection. Daryl's fingers trembled slightly against the back of her neck, but his hold was steady.
Isabelle's heart raced, but the chaos in her chest settled into something softer, steadier, as the kiss deepened. It wasn't hurried or desperate. It was deliberate, tender, and unspoken. Her tongue traced his bottom lip, and Daryl hesitated only briefly before parting his lips slightly, letting her in. The faint graze of her tongue against his sent a shiver through him, and he instinctively tightened his hold on the back of her neck, his fingers threading lightly into her hair.
Isabelle leaned closer, her free hand sliding up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath her palm. The warmth of him enveloped her, a stark contrast to the cool air of the room.
Daryl responded with a tentative yet growing confidence, the roughness of his lips against hers softened by the gentleness of the moment. It wasn't just a kiss—it was an exchange of trust, of walls lowered just enough to let each other in.
When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingled in the quiet, their foreheads almost touching. Isabelle kept her hand on his chest, her thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt as she kept her gaze lowered, watching the quick rise and fall of his chest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, though she didn't feel sorry at all.
Daryl shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear his thoughts. "Nah, don't be." he said, his voice quiet but steady. He tipped her chin up forcing her eyes to meet his, "I ain't."
Isabelle's breath hitched at his words, the raw honesty in his tone striking a chord deep within her. She held his gaze, the vulnerability in his blue eyes mirroring her own.
For a moment, she couldn't find the words to respond. Her thumb continued to trace small circles over his chest, grounding herself in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her hand.
"I didn't mean to—" she began, her voice barely above a whisper, but Daryl cut her off gently.
"You didn't do nothin' wrong," he said, his thumb brushing lightly along her jaw. "Just… caught me off guard, is all."
A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips, her gaze softening. "You sure?" she asked quietly, her voice tinged with hesitation.
He nodded, his hand still cradling the back of her neck, his touch steady and reassuring.
They stayed like that for a moment, suspended in the quiet intimacy of the room. The world outside—the chaos, the danger—faded into the background, leaving only the two of them and the fragile connection they'd begun to build.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was peaceful, a moment of understanding that neither of them needed to fill with words. For the first time in a long time, it felt like the weight they both carried had lightened, just enough to let them breathe.