He pulled upward.
For several seconds, he stood.
Sweat poured down his face.
Martha watched.
“Enough.”
“No.”
“Colum.”
“Again.”
He lowered himself.
Then tried again.
The second attempt lasted longer.
His legs did not truly support him.
But his left thigh contracted.
Barely.
Martha saw it.
“So did I.”
Colum stared downward.
“Do it again.”
He tried.
Nothing.
Martha grabbed his face with both hands.
“Hey.”
His eyes lifted.
“You stood.”
“With braces.”
“You stood.”
“For twelve seconds.”
“Twelve more than August.”
Something broke through his expression.
Not tears exactly.
But close.
Martha kissed his forehead.
Neither spoke.
Then both realized what she had done.
Martha stepped back.
Colum looked at her.
The air changed.
She swallowed.
“Don’t make this strange.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“Could kiss somewhere else next time.”
Martha stared.
Colum’s mouth twitched.
She smacked his shoulder.
He laughed.
That evening the kiss happened properly.
No dramatic declaration.
No storm.
No audience.
Colum sat in his chair near the stove while Martha mended a shirt.
He asked, “Did Elias love you?”
Martha stopped sewing.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
“Why ask?”
“Because I don’t want to pretend the life before me didn’t matter.”
Martha’s throat tightened.
“He did.”
Colum nodded.
“I’m glad.”
Silence.
Martha set down the shirt.
“Did anyone love you?”
“Probably.”
“That is not an answer.”
“A woman named Catherine.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted a town.”
“You wanted mountains?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“She married a banker.”
Martha smiled.
“Do you miss her?”
“No.”
“That quick?”
“Years ago.”
He looked at Martha.
“Besides, she never threw potatoes accurately.”
Martha laughed.
Then the laughter faded.
They looked at each other.
Colum lifted one hand.
Stopped before touching her.
Martha noticed.
“You can.”
He placed his hand against her cheek.
His palm was rough.
Warm.
Martha closed her eyes.
Then kissed him.