Now it's the only thing that keeps the noise at bay. The only time my hands are steady, my breathing even, my mind clear.
I work until the light fades, until my phone buzzes with a reminder to eat dinner. I force myself to stop, to heat up leftovers, to go through the motions of normal human existence.
But when I return to the chair, when the needles start moving again, my mind drifts where it shouldn't.
To dark curls escaping a braid. To warm brown eyes and a soft smile. The way Isla looked at me.Me.
To the possibility that maybe Birdie is right.
Maybe it is time to stop hiding.
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
I knit faster, the stitches tight and even, the pattern emerging row by row. Creating something beautiful from nothing. Making order from chaos.
It's all I know how to do anymore.
The needles click in the silence. The fire crackles. Snow falls outside my window.
I let myself wonder what it might be like to let someone in.
Even if I'm not sure that I know how anymore.
three
Isla
Thechurchbasementsmellslike coffee, cinnamon rolls, and that particular mustiness that comes with old buildings. I'm setting up my table near the back, arranging my grandmother's remaining inventory and trying not to feel like a failure.
Saturday morning craft shows used to be Grandma's thing. She'd light up this entire room with her energy, knowing everyone's names, their grandkids' names, asking about gardens and recipes and lives. I'm just... here. Going through the motions.
I let my eyes wander around the basement. The usual vendors are setting up.
And then I see him.
Mac Hawthorne, carrying a plastic bin, shoulders tense like he'd rather be anywhere else. He's heading toward Birdie's table near the front, and even from here I can see the discomfort radiating off him.
My heart does a stupid flip. I've thought about him constantly since Tuesday. Those eyes. Those hands. The way he looked at me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm weaving through vendors toward Birdie's table. Mac has his back to me, unloading items from the bin while Birdie directs him like a tiny, tie-dyed general.
The work laid out on her table stops me cold.
Cable-knit throws in rich tones. Baby blankets with intricate Fair Isle patterns. Fingerless gloves that look impossibly soft. And in the center, a lap afghan in shades of gray that makes my chest ache.
It's not just beautiful. It's art.
The pattern is some kind of Celtic knot design with texture I've never seen before. Each stitch is perfect. The color transitions from charcoal to silver to cream seem to glow.
I reach out to touch it, and the yarn is like butter under my fingers.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mac's voice comes from behind me, rough and close.
I spin around and nearly collide with his chest. He's right there, close enough that I catch his scent of woodsmoke and pine and soap.
"Sorry," I manage. "I was just... this is incredible work."
Something flickers in his eyes. Pride. "Birdie's talented."
