It had been 70 days since you’d moved to the valley. Elliott had kept count. It was the 14th of Fall, and rain pounded against his cabin roof. He sat on his bed, holding a duck feather you’d given him. He heard the crunch of sand outside, despite the storm. He grabbed his umbrella and followed a silhouette to the docks, where he found you. He held the umbrella over you, asking, “Anon what are you doing out here on such a day?”