Life is too short

Every Tuesday morning, Thomas arranged his apples with painstaking care. The deep red ones here, the pale green there, each pile a small monument to order in his otherwise solitary life. He told himself it was professional pride that made him spend an extra thirty minutes setting up his market stall, not the fact that Tuesdays were when Iris worked late at her shop, mending clothes in the golden afternoon light that spilled through her windows.

At thirty-five, Thomas had mastered the art of being alone without appearing lonely. He ran his family’s orchard with quiet efficiency, cared for his aging mother, and maintained the polite distance that kept Graven Pointe’s well-meaning matchmakers at bay. If sometimes he lingered at his market stall until sunset, watching the warm glow from Iris’s shop paint shadows on the street, well – that was his business.

Iris had her own reasons for working late on Tuesdays. At thirty-two, three years a widow, she’d grown comfortable with the rhythms of solitude. The steady whisper of thread through fabric, the gentle click of her scissors, the way evening light caught dust motes dancing in her shop – these were safe companions that asked nothing of her heart.

But on Tuesdays, she could watch Thomas through her window, pretending to focus on her mending while stealing glances at his careful hands arranging fruit, at the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He had kind eyes, she’d noticed despite herself. The sort that crinkled at the corners even when his mouth was serious.

They’d developed a dance of careful distances. He would buy buttons from her shop, lingering just long enough to seem polite. She would select apples from his stall, taking care not to let their fingers brush during the exchange. Both were experts at maintaining the fiction that their hearts didn’t quicken at these brief encounters.

“You should talk to him properly,” Elena would say whenever she brought Iris her mending. “Life’s too short for all this dancing around.”

But Iris remembered too well the hollow ache of loss, how it felt to wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Better to stay safe within the walls she’d built, where memories of David lived in carefully tended corners, and new feelings couldn’t threaten the peace she’d fought so hard to find.

Thomas had his own well-meaning advisors. His mother never failed to mention how lovely Iris’s work was, how kind her smile, how nice it would be to have someone bring warmth to their too-quiet house. But Thomas remembered the look in Iris’s eyes when she spoke of David – just once, when she’d been hemming pants for Thomas and mentioned how her late husband had always managed to wear holes in the knees of his clothes.

That glimpse of raw feeling had scared him more than he cared to admit. He’d spent years cultivating his solitude, turning down introductions and family suggestions, focusing on the orchard and his mother’s care. Opening himself to that kind of vulnerability seemed more frightening than facing the Dread Wastes alone.

The harvest festival changed everything.

It started with a broken lamp in Iris’s shop window, the one that usually lit her late-night work. Thomas noticed its darkness from his stall, watched her struggle with the fixture as dusk approached. Before he could think better of it, he was crossing the street, a spare lantern in hand.

“Here,” he said, setting it carefully on her workbench. “Until you can get yours fixed.”

The small space filled with the scent of apples from his clothes, mingling with the lavender she used to freshen cleaned garments. Standing this close, neither could maintain their careful facades.

“Thank you,” she said softly, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to fix it, but…”

“I could help,” he offered, surprising himself. “I’m good with things like that.”

The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken possibilities.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” she started, but he shook his head.

“It’s no imposition. I’d like to – that is, if you’d let me.”

Something shifted in that moment, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Iris looked up, really looked at him, and Thomas felt the carefully constructed walls around his heart tremble.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked. “While you look at the lamp?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

Over cups of mint tea, their conversation started hesitantly but soon found its own rhythm. They discovered they both loved the same bizarre traveling theater troupe that visited Graven Pointe twice a year – the one most townspeople found too strange to appreciate.

“Wait, you actually went to see ‘The Merchant’s Dancing Goat’ three times?” Iris laughed, her eyes lighting up. “Everyone said it was terrible!”

“It was terrible,” Thomas grinned. “That’s what made it perfect. I’ve never seen anyone commit so completely to a bad idea.

The conversation meandered to childhood memories, and Iris found herself telling him about the time she’d tried to tame a wild rabbit when she was eight. “I left it carrots every day for weeks,” she said, smiling at the memory. “I was convinced it was the same rabbit coming back.”

“Was it?”

“No, it was probably twenty different rabbits, all getting a free meal. But I named it anyway – Sir Hopscotch the Third.”

Thomas smiled. “The Third?”

“Well, I couldn’t very well name it Sir Hopscotch the First – that wouldn’t have been sophisticated enough,” she replied with mock seriousness.

His laugh was warm and genuine. “I did something similar with a crow. Except I was convinced it was delivering secret messages.”

“Was it?”

“Just stealing shiny buttons from my mother’s sewing box.” He shook his head. “I called it Lord Blackfeather.”

“Very sophisticated,” Iris teased.

Their eyes met over their teacups, sharing the particular joy of finding someone who understands your silly side. The conversation drifted to their favorite spots in town, and Thomas mentioned the little alcove close to the lake where he sometimes ate lunch.

“The one with the crooked stone bench?” Iris asked, leaning forward.

“You know it?”

“That’s where I go to sketch sometimes,” she said softly.

The only thing they couldn’t agree on was music. Iris loved the meditative and entrancing music that floated across the lake from Lyra Mistvale’s cottage, while Thomas preferred the rowdy tavern bands that played on festival nights. Their playful argument about which was better turned into stories about their worst and best festival memories, until they realized three hours had passed in what felt like minutes.

The lamp was fixed in twenty minutes, but the conversation lasted three hours.

In the days that followed, their careful dance began to change. He brought her early apples, the sweetest ones from his best trees. She left small gifts at his market stall – a handkerchief embroidered with tiny apple blossoms, a scarf when the mornings turned cool. Their fingers began to brush during these exchanges, each touch an admission of hope.

On the night of the harvest festival, Thomas found Iris standing at the edge of the celebration, watching children chase fireflies near Brackenmoore Lake. The setting sun painted the water in shades of gold and purple, while the sweet scent of kiju blossoms drifted on the evening breeze.

“I’m not very good at this,” he said quietly, standing beside her. “You know—opening up, baring your soul to someone. But I think—I think some things are worth the risk.”

Iris turned to him, her eyes bright and watery. “I’m scared too,” she whispered. “I thought I’d forgotten how to feel this way. Or maybe I just didn’t want to remember.”

Thomas reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His hand trembled slightly, and somehow that small sign of vulnerability gave her courage.

“We could be scared together,” she suggested, her voice was barely audible above the festival music. She leaned in close.

Their lips touched, ever so slightly—a kiss, gentle as morning light. Thomas tasted apple blossoms and new beginnings. Iris felt the years of solitude melt away like frost in spring sunshine. They drew apart slowly, both smiling with wonder at how something so frightening could feel so much like coming home.

Behind them, the festival continued its cheerful chaos, but they stood in their own quiet moment, two people who had finally found the courage to stop dancing around their hearts. And life anew had begun.