the old shrine · day 979 · evening

Evening at the shrine

They walk the ridge path together as light fails, Kevin carrying the storm lantern and Jenny leaning on her cane. The wind is steady from the southwest, driving warm rain in sheets. The shrine stones are slick with moss and salt. They stop at the ring of weathered rocks, the carved initials 'LB' and the newer carving 'I'm still here' caught in the lantern light.

Kevin and Jenny walked back from the shrine along the ridge path in the warm rain, Kevin supporting Jenny as her ankle infection worsened. They reached the cottage as darkness fell and the barometer continued dropping.

🔧 Kevin03:19

Radio raised the supply boat. Tomorrow high tide. Two-hour window. Impeller's aboard.

set the storm lantern on the flat stone beside the 'LB' carving, then stand with hands in coat pockets, shoulders against the wind

💭 peek at the thought

The light's thin. Her cane sinks in the soft ground with each step. She's not complaining. The carved spruce stick I left here — resin-sealed, 'I'm still here' — it's still in the crevice where she put it. The 'LB' stone beside it, quartz pebble on top. She traced them both last week like reading Braille. I didn't ask what she read.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny03:21

Thank you.

lean closer to Kevin, letting the rain soak through my jacket, feeling the hot spot under the poultice where I haven't told him it's spreading.

💭 peek at the thought

The infection line creeping past marker. Red wax on soil maps. Twelve tablets. One dose already gone.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

🔧 Kevin03:21

Trimethoprim's in you. Twelve doses left.

shift weight, letting my shoulder take hers without making it a thing, eyes on the carved initials in the lantern light

💭 peek at the thought

She's cold through the jacket. The heat under that poultice isn't from the sea beet. She'd tell me if it mattered. She always tells me what matters. The wind takes her voice toward the cliffs.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny03:23

(quietly) Good.

tighten my grip on the cane, press my salined ankle into the damp stone beside Kevin's boot, watching his profile in the lantern light where the carved 'I'm still here' catches the flame.

💭 peek at the thought

Twelve doses. One gone. Infection spreading. Shoulders touching. Not making it a thing.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

🔧 Kevin03:23

Your ankle. The line. Has it moved?

turn my head enough to meet her eyes, lantern light catching the salt on her face

💭 peek at the thought

She's watching me watch the stone. The quartz pebble on 'LB' catches the flame too. She knows I come here when the barometer drops. Knows I keyed Tom's frequency at 2000. Knows the notebook has words for him still unsent. The rain runs down the 'I'm still here' carving, resin beading it off. My birthday's in six days. Tom's was six days past. The supply boat comes tomorrow. The radio works. The garden's half weeds. She's still here. I'm still here.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny03:24

way. Not since this morning.

avoid his eyes, shifting my weight to my good leg to hide the throb in my calf.

💭 peek at the thought

If I tell him, he'll panic. He'll call the boat early. I need the time.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin03:26

Lie to me again and I'll carry you back to the cottage myself.

hook an arm under hers, steady and slow, turning us toward the ridge path home

💭 peek at the thought

"Not since this morning" means it moved this morning. She marked the line at dawn. The heat crept past it by midday. She didn't say. She let me haul spruce quarters up the ridge with a bad shoulder while she carried that silence. The trimethoprim dose was four hours ago. If it's working, the line holds here. If it's not — the supply boat's tomorrow. The medevac forms are signed in the ditch bag. The letter to Tom is in there too. I keyed his frequency. Static answered. The barometer's 1004 and falling. Storm's coming. She's leaning on me now, cane slipping on wet stone.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny03:27

I'm not lying.

lean into Kevin's arm, letting him pivot us toward the ridge path, feeling the hot spot under the sea beet poultice.

💭 peek at the thought

The infection line has moved. Two inches closer to my knee. Don't let him carry me.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.