Chapter 7 - Hold the Sky Steady
We meet at the tower before eight. The air is cold enough to sting.
Rae’s smile looks tired. “Didn’t sleep,” she says.
“Call from Mara?” I ask.
She nods. “She said quiet feels like I’m leaving her. I said I’d call Sunday. Then the line dropped. The grid did that flicker again.”
“Do you want to skip today?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I want a steady room.”
Inside, the Vigil Cantor signs us in. “Same rules,” she says. “Count first. One ring only if invited. If your hands shake, let them.”
We sit on the back bench. The rope hangs still. The stone holds last night’s chill.
Rae’s breath is shallow. Her fingers worry the edge of her jacket. I keep my voice low.
“Do you want me close?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Please.”
I shift so our shoulders touch. The Cantor sees us and nods once, like a blessing without words.
A caretaker climbs to the belfry to check the yoke. Tools clink above. The sound is calm. Then the lights in the stairwell blink twice. The rope shivers. A thin hum creeps into the room like a headache.
Rae flinches. “I hate that sound,” she says. “It feels like the room is getting smaller.”
“Look at me,” I say. “Can I hold your hand?”
“Yes.”
Her palm is cold. Mine is shaking.
“Count with me,” I say. “Just the numbers. Small voice.”
She nods.
“One,” I say.
“One,” she repeats.
“Two.” - “Two.”
“Three.” - “Three.”
“Four.” - “Four.”
We keep going. The hum lingers. We don’t race it. We don’t chase it. We let it be background to our numbers.
The caretaker leans over the railing. “Sorry,” he calls down. “Power dipped. We’re steady now.” The hum dulls, then fades.
Rae’s grip loosens a little. Her breath deepens. She doesn’t let go of my hand. I don’t make her.
“You okay to sit?” I ask.
“I want to sit on the floor,” she says.
We slide off the bench. Cold stone against our legs, backs to the pew. We breathe there. People nearby give us space without fuss.
Rae wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m embarrassed,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say. “Can I say something heavier?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“I want to be the person who makes rooms feel bigger for you. Not louder. Bigger,” I say. “If you want that.”
“I want that,” she says. Her voice shakes. “I want you here.”
“Here is where I am,” I say. “No thunder. Just me.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like she’s been holding it since last night. “I love you,” she says. The words land fast and plain, like a door shutting on a draft.
My chest goes hot and then soft. I check my mouth before I open it. “Can I say it back?”
“Yes.”
“I love you,” I say. Saying it doesn’t pull any weather. It doesn’t need to. It sits between us and keeps warm.
She leans her head to my shoulder. “I don’t want a grand thing,” she says into my coat. “I want lunch plans and clean dishes and someone who counts.”
“I can do those,” I say. “I can count a lot.”
We breathe. Our hands stay linked.
The Cantor comes over and crouches to our level. “Do you want a ring today?” she asks. “You don’t have to.”
Rae looks at me. I shake my head. “Not today,” I say. “Today we hold.”
“Good choice,” the Cantor says. She stands. “I’ll ring once for the room.”
She takes the rope with care. She doesn’t perform. She pulls with a steady arm. The bell gives a short tone, rough at the start, then clean on the tail. The overtone arrives late. **sol-la-do-fa.** Not loud. True.
Rae closes her eyes. “That helps,” she whispers.
“Me too,” I say.
Above us, the caretaker calls down, “Guide wheel’s happier now. Thanks for waiting.”
We stay seated. Rae’s hands stop shaking. When she looks up, her face is open and tired in a way I trust. She laughs once, small.
“What?” I ask.
“You, on the floor of a church, saying ‘I love you’ like you’re reading a recipe,” she says. “It feels… safe.”
“Good,” I say. “I want safe more than grand.”
She lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles. “Can we make a rule?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“If one of us says ‘I’m small today,’ we slow everything,” she says. “No fixes, unless asked. Food, water, walk. We make the room steady.”
“I like that rule,” I say. “Add it to the card.”
We stand slowly. My knees click. She makes a face like hers do too.
“Breakfast,” I say. “There’s a stall with rice and soft eggs.”
“Sounds perfect,” she says.
We tell the Cantor we’re stepping out. She gives us two small paper cards: **BELL-KEEPER HOURS: PRACTICE AT HOME - BREATH FIRST, HANDS SECOND.** I tuck them with my tab.
On the steps, Rae squeezes my arm. “What did it feel like when I said it?” she asks. “The love thing.”
“Like the room got bigger,” I say. “No wind. Just space.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s how I want it to feel.”
We cross to the food stall. The woman behind the counter recognizes Rae and nods at me like I’ve been admitted to something quiet and real. “Two bowls?” she asks.
“Please,” Rae says. “Extra scallions.”
We sit at a small table. Steam rises. I take the first bite and breathe easier. Rae leans her foot against mine under the table. It’s a light touch, but it anchors me.
“I kept wanting to say it yesterday,” she says. “At the museum. Then the grid flickered and I hated that the first proof of us might be a panic.”
“You got proof now,” I say. “Quiet one.”
She smiles. “Quiet proof is my favorite kind.”
We eat in comfortable silence, then clear our bowls and bring the chopsticks back to the counter. The city sounds are normal again-bikes, voices, a tram. The chime hits four notes as it rolls by. **sol, la, do, fa.** We both hear it and don’t need to say so.
“Walk?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Home, then nap?”
“Yes.”
On the stairs to my place, I stop at the landing. “Can I hold your face?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I do. I look at her steady. “I loved you before I knew it,” I say. “In the market, under the awning. In the kitchen with the noodles. It took me this long to say it right.”
She nods. “I knew,” she says. “But it matters to hear.”
Inside, I leave the door a finger-width open. Rae sees it and smiles like she’s coming home to a joke we wrote together.
We sit on the floor with our backs to the bed. She takes my card and pencil. She writes:
**If one of us says “I’m small today,” we slow everything.**
Under it, she adds:
**Love is quiet work. Keep the pace.**
I tape the card where we can see it from the bed.
“Nap,” she says.
“Nap,” I say.
We lie down on top of the covers. We don’t rush. We don’t make a show. Our hands find each other on the blanket. Her breathing evens out first. Mine follows.
As I drift, I hear the building settle: a pipe tick, a hinge relax, a kettle click two floors down. Somewhere, a bus chime hits the four notes out of order and then fixes itself. Late, but right.
I keep the door open a finger-width. I hold the sky steady where it counts, over this bed, over this hour, over the woman I love who asked me to stay.