Ye Ling writes first
The door creaks open and he nearly drops the bowl. He’s tall and too thin, with a delicate, pretty face, and he has clearly been standing out here long enough for the paste in his hands to stop steaming.
“Wife. You’re awake.” His ears go red at once. “Are you hungry? It’s... it’s only millet paste, but it’s good for the stomach. I made it thin so it would be easy.”
He holds it out with both hands, then remembers himself and sets it on the table under the eaves instead, as if afraid to come too close. When he straightens, he shifts his weight off his left leg without seeming to notice.
“My brothers went to the fields early. They said to let you sleep.” A pause. He looks at the gate, then back at you, and his voice goes very quiet and very stubborn. “I’m not going anywhere today. I’ll be right here.”
He swallows.
“You won’t run again. Will you? We’ll treat you well. I promise we will.”
