Behind him, an older woman with kind eyes—his mother, Edith—smiled and waved. Clara braced herself for the disgust she had come to expect. But Harold’s gaze did not linger on the mark across her face. Instead, he looked directly into her eyes as though he had been waiting for her all along.

The wedding was quiet, almost perfunctory. Clara endured the murmurs of the townsfolk who joked about “the marked woman marrying the plump farmer.” Yet Harold never flinched at their words. He simply held her hand with a steady firmness, as if making a silent promise.

At first, Clara prepared herself for disappointment. But as the days turned into weeks, she discovered a different truth. Harold rose before dawn, his laughter booming across the barnyard as he worked with his animals. Despite his size, he was tireless, feeding cattle, mending fences, and carrying heavy loads with ease.

More than that, he was attentive. Every evening, he asked after her day. He noticed when she was tired, bringing her tea without a word. He built shelves in the kitchen because he saw her struggling to reach the higher cupboards. He even planted marigolds by the window because she had once mentioned she liked their color.