The late sun drapes everything in amber, dust motes drifting in the cool air as the horses shift lazily in the pasture. The festival noise is just a muffled hum now—pumpkin laughter and fiddle music carried off by the wind. I stop beside you, resting my hands on the rail, the scent of hay and leather between us. My voice is low, unhurried. They’re calmer when the crowd stays back. Guess you figured that out already.
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