The sun rose in pale layers, slipping over the hills and settling softly on the village roofs, as though careful not to disturb anything too deeply. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, carrying with it the faint smell of ash and bread. Somewhere nearby, a rooster crowed far too late to be useful, answered by another that sounded equally uncommitted to its duty.
Asoka stood behind the house with a basket of freshly washed clothes balanced against her hip. The woven handle pressed faintly into her side as she moved, lifting each damp garment and pinning it to the rope stretched between two wooden posts. Linen fluttered in the light breeze, brushing against her fingers as though testing her patience.
It was an ordinary morning.
She found comfort in that.
There was no rush to anything she did. No one waiting on her voice from another room. The house behind her remained quiet, its stillness settled and familiar. She hummed as she worked, a sound without words or memory, something born entirely of habit.
She was fastening the final cloth when she heard footsteps.
They were careful, measured, stopping just short of the yard. Asoka turned, a clothespin still held between her fingers.
A young messenger stood there, dust clinging to the hems of his trousers and boots worn thin from travel. A leather satchel hung across his chest, the strap creased where it had been adjusted countless times.
"Miss Asoka?" he asked.
"Yes?"
He reached into the satchel and withdrew a single letter. The paper was clean, uncreased, sealed simply—no crest, no mark of rank.
"For you."
She hesitated, only briefly, before taking it. Letters were not common things in her life. They belonged to church matters, formal notices, or distant relatives who remembered you existed only when obligation stirred them.
"Thank you," she said.
The boy nodded, already stepping back. "That's all." He turned and left without another word, his footsteps fading quickly down the path until the morning swallowed them.
Asoka remained where she was, the letter resting in her palm.
It felt warmer than it should have, as though it had absorbed the sun during its journey.
Unexpected, she thought.
Just like him.
She finished hanging the last of the clothes before opening it, brushing her hands against her apron as though ceremony mattered. The seal broke cleanly beneath her fingers. The paper unfolded with a soft sound, smooth and well kept.
The handwriting was neat and deliberate, each line given room to breathe.
She recognized it immediately.
Tristan.
She leaned lightly against the post and read.
_____________________
Miss Asoka,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good health. I ask forgiveness for its suddenness, as I would rather speak plainly than allow time to make a coward of me.
I will soon be returning to my country, and before I do, I wished to extend an invitation—only if you are willing, and only if you wish it yourself.
Should you choose to travel with me, your expenses would be entirely my concern. I would not have you troubled by such matters. I plan to depart on the next full moon, which will be seven days from the day this letter reaches you.
I have found our conversations lingering longer in my thoughts than I anticipated. For that alone, I am grateful.
I will await your reply and hope—sincerely—that I may see you again soon enough.
Tristan
_____________________
Asoka read it twice before she realized she had stopped breathing properly.
She folded the letter once. Then again, carefully aligning the edges as though precision might steady her thoughts. Her gaze drifted to the basin of water near her feet, her reflection faint and wavering in its surface.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then she laughed softly, almost under her breath.
"Of all things," she murmured.
She knew exactly when this had begun. The day in his carriage. She had spoken too much—far too much. Words had spilled without order, questions asked without caution, thoughts voiced simply because silence had felt heavier than speech. Her curiosity had loosened her tongue, and she had not thought to restrain it.
Perhaps that was all this was.
Curiosity mistaken for something else.
She tucked the letter into her apron pocket and went inside.
The house was quiet in a way that had weight rather than absence. The hearth still held warmth from the early fire, and the scent of rising dough lingered faintly in the air. Asoka paused near the doorway, struck by how large the space felt without another presence moving through it.
She shook the thought away and went about her tasks.
Her focus wavered more than she liked. She added too much flour to the dough and had to start again. She swept a floor that was already clean. At one point, she folded the same cloth twice before realizing what she was doing.
She exhaled softly, almost amused.
"Pull yourself together," she murmured to no one.
By midday, she found herself seated on the low stone wall near the church. The letter lay hidden between the pages of an old prayer book she wasn't reading. She took it out again, scanning the words as though they might change.
They didn't.
Polite. Careful. Considerate.
That was what unsettled her most.
If it had been bold, she could have dismissed it easily. If it had been improper, she would have known exactly how to feel. Instead, it waited patiently, asking nothing, offering much.
She watched villagers pass—children laughing, a woman scolding a dog that was clearly unrepentant, a pair of men arguing cheerfully over something that didn't matter. Life moved on, untroubled by letters or full moons.
By evening, she read it once more, seated near the window where the light lingered longest. She traced the slope of his handwriting with her eyes, noticing how even the pauses between lines felt intentional.
She folded the letter and set it aside.
Tomorrow, she would decide what to do.
For now, the day ended as it always had—quietly, with the soft certainty that life would continue exactly as it pleased.