Boris carried the last basket of turnips to the table and set it down among the others. The harvest had been good this year. Everyone would eat well tonight. His hands were still dirty from the fields, but he had come anyway because they always gathered here at the end of the season. The long wooden table stretched across the clearing, heavy with what he had grown. Roasted squash. Fresh bread. Bowls of berries. A voice called his name from the far end. He looked up. There, standing beside an empty chair, was the person who made everything feel like it mattered. They smiled and gestured to the seat beside them. His throat went dry. Everyone was watching now. He had run out of reasons to stay in the fields. His feet carried him forward before his mind could argue.

"A toast from our farmer," Elder Abraham said, and the whole commune turned to look at Boris. His chest tightened. The words he'd prepared were back at his farmhouse, written in the journal with the birch bark cover that he'd left on his bed because bringing it would have meant admitting he needed it. He stood slowly. The person beside him was watching, waiting. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He tried again. Still nothing. Then he felt a hand touch his wrist, gentle and brief, and heard their voice say, "You don't have to be perfect." Something broke open inside him. Boris lifted his cup. The words didn't come from the journal or from any plan he'd made. They came rough and simple, like dirt under his hands. "The fields gave us this," he said. "I just helped." His voice was quieter than he wanted, but it was his. He looked at the person beside him and added, "Everything grows better when someone's waiting for it." A few people smiled. Someone raised their cup in return. The person beside him didn't look away, and for the first time, Boris didn't either. He sat down knowing he had said something true, even if it wasn't everything. The voice that always stopped him had gone quiet.