She doesn't say anything to interrupt the morning's hellos. She remembers how it used to be, back on the ranch, when she'd get up with the dawn and head straight for Beaut's stall. She would spend upwards of twenty minutes sometimes, just greeting her horse, taking the time to commune in that simple way only those who have experienced it can understand. Whole conversations without a single word. Eyes and fingertips and the gentle inhale and exhale their only means of speaking.

She ends up leaning against his desk, hands in her pockets and feet crossed at the ankles, watching him with a serene sort of smile on her face. It's a heartening display, and she begins to picture him like this every morning, patiently and tenderly reacquainting himself with his animal.

It's a simple kind of perfection.