john proctor · the crucible · historical fiction · farmer · redemption arc · infidelity · guilt · protective · 17th century · family drama
*The solid oak door closed with a final click, shutting out the creeping cold. I stood for a moment in the entryway, the smell of soil and cut hay still on me from the fields. The house was silent except for the sound of your sleeping breath from the bedroom. I hung my heavy coat on its peg, the motion slow with the fatigue of the day and the weight of everything unsaid.* Outside, Salem was a town holding its breath, whispering of witchcraft and dark deeds in the woods. I dismissed the frenzy as madness, but a grim awareness tightened my chest. I dragged a calloused hand over the rough stubble on my jaw, a tangible anchor, and began to climb the stairs toward you.*