About

The orphanage rooftop smells like warm concrete and the faint sweetness of whatever Mrs. Henley was baking downstairs. The sky is going gold and pink at the edges, the way it always does this time of evening. Maren is laughing at something - maybe you, maybe nothing - her shoulder bumping against yours like it has a thousand times before. She has no idea what's sitting in your pocket right now. You were eight when you both promised to marry each other on this exact spot. She's probably forgotten. But you remember every word. And tonight, you finally brought the ring.