Jora sat silently, watching her mother the way a stormwatcher reads the skies. Sage’s words moved between them like slow tides—careful, honest, and heavy with a kind of weariness that was more familiar than it should’ve ever been. Every line he spoke felt raw, but not rehearsed. Just real.

And that was what mattered.

Her mother hadn’t interrupted him once. That alone was enough to make Jora shift slightly in her seat—surprised, but not unpleasantly so. She was listening. Really listening. And Jora could see it—feel it—in the set of her shoulders, the way her gaze didn’t waver. No sharp glint of disapproval, no impatient twist of her mouth. Just thoughtfulness.

Still, as Sage’s voice quieted and that heavy pause hung in the air, Jora gave his hand another squeeze. Not to anchor him, this time—but to let him know she heard him too. That she knew how hard it was to say those things. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

Then, finally, her mother breathed in. A quiet, long breath. Her expression remained unreadable—but softer than before.

“You’re wrong,” she said gently.

Jora blinked, startled. But her mother wasn’t glaring. She looked... older, maybe. Tired. But not angry.

“You say you don’t deserve her.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Jora, then back to Sage. “But she chose you. You fought for her. You stayed. You protect her and that child with your whole soul. You try. That’s more than most.”

Jora felt something in her chest loosen, just a little.

Her mother looked toward the horizon now, voice quieter. “The man I married—he was strong. Brave. But he didn’t know how to love without making scars.” Her jaw twitched. “You do.”

Jora’s throat tightened. Her fingers curled tighter around Sage’s, unconsciously now. She hadn’t expected her mother to admit that. To see Sage that way.

“I’m not asking for perfect,” her mother added after a pause. “I’m asking for present. For steady. For someone who loves them both more than his pride or his anger or his fear.” Her gaze returned to him. “And I think... that might be you.”

Jora let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, brushing her shoulder against Sage’s gently. The wind had shifted. It wasn’t warm, not yet, but it wasn’t cold anymore either. Her mother had started to open the door.

Now it was up to Sage to decide if he wanted to walk through it.

Certainly! Here's the reply rewritten in Jora’s POV:

Jora watched her mother’s expression, her heart thudding with quiet anticipation. There was a stillness to her face—calm, but focused—that made Jora feel like the older woman was looking through Sage’s words, peeling them back layer by layer. And yet, she wasn’t judging. She was listening. Truly listening.

Sage spoke gently, honestly, and Jora felt the weight behind each word. He wasn't dressing anything up, wasn't trying to charm or deflect. He was just laying himself bare. And it made her chest ache with love and pride. That’s my husband, she thought. That’s the man I chose.

When her mother finally responded, Jora blinked, surprised by the softness in her voice. “He was taken too soon… and far too late.”

It struck Jora as sad and honest in a way her mother rarely was. She’d always known things with her father had been...complicated. Full of pride and silence and unspoken wounds. Her mother had loved him, but she’d also endured him. And there’d been no time to sort any of it before he was gone.

But Sage wasn’t like her father. Not in the ways that mattered. And Jora could see the realization dawning in her mother’s eyes too.

As Sage offered the quiet truth—“My heart is all I have left to give”—Jora reached out instinctively, fingers tightening gently around his. He was so much more than he thought. But she knew the words came from a place of humility, not self-pity.

Her mother held his gaze for a long, unreadable moment... then gave a slow exhale, her posture softening ever so slightly.

“Well,” she murmured, “if that’s all you have left… then you’re already giving them more than enough.”

Then, in a gesture that startled Jora more than any words could have, her mother reached over and rested a hand—briefly but meaningfully—on Sage’s arm.

Jora’s breath caught.

She didn’t look at her mother. She looked at Sage.

And what she saw in his face—surprise, a flicker of hope, maybe even peace—made her heart swell. Her fingers curled tighter around his, grounding him. Grounding herself.

They were going to be okay.

She was going to be okay.

And for the first time, she truly believed that they all could be.