She named him Elias, because even broken beginnings deserve strong names.
People talked, as people always do, but Elora did not defend herself. She returned to the fields, to the children, to a life shaped by responsibility rather than approval.
Two years passed.
Caleb returned wealthy, restless, and strangely hollow. Success had followed him everywhere, but satisfaction had learned how to stay away. A land acquisition deal brought him back to the countryside he once fled. On a stack of documents, one name appeared that made his breath catch before his mind could catch up. Elora Whitfield.
He convinced himself it was coincidence until his car slowed near a weathered fence and memory struck him with the force of recognition.
He stepped out, immaculate in tailored clothing that did not belong to the dust beneath his shoes, and scanned the fields with disbelief.
She was there, kneeling among rows of vegetables, sunlight threading through her loose braid, her posture steady and unafraid.
“I am looking for Elora Whitfield,” he called, his voice uncertain in the open air.
She turned, recognition passing through her eyes without surprise.
“Caleb,” she said evenly.