The morning came softly, slipping through the shutters like a shy visitor. A golden hue painted the edge of my blanket, and the scent of warm ash and hearth smoke drifted into the room. I blinked slowly, stretching beneath the thick covers. My bones ached slightly from yesterday's chores, but it was the kind of ache that made me feel real—here, alive, present.
I rose quietly, careful not to wake the stillness of the house. The wood floor was cool beneath my feet as I moved to the washbasin and splashed my face with water. Outside, the first birds were already singing.
From the kitchen came the rhythmic thump of a knife and the low hum of my mother's voice. She always sang when she cooked. It was never a full song, more like bits and pieces—old lullabies, half-remembered hymns, and wordless tunes passed down from her own mother, and likely her mother before that.
I stepped through the curtain and greeted her with a grin. "Morning, Mama."
She turned with a smile that lit her entire face. "You're up before your father. That's a first."
"I didn't want to waste the day." I slid onto the bench by the table and caught sight of the food: a small skillet of eggs with wild garlic, a loaf of leftover bread now toasted and crisp, and a jar of berry preserves.
"You've got plans today, don't you?" she asked, handing me a wooden plate.
I nodded as I took it. "Elias and Thom are going down to the creek. They want to try catching trout before the sun gets too high."
Mother raised a brow. "And you're not going to fall in like last time?"
I grinned sheepishly. "No promises."
From the back door, heavy boots thudded against the floor. Father entered, his hair still damp from the pump outside. He looked at me, then at the plate in my hand.
"Already up?" he said with mock surprise. "Should I check for frost on the roof?"
"Very funny," I muttered, biting into the toast.
He smirked and sat down across from me, accepting a mug of goat's milk from Mother with a grateful grunt. "Don't let Elias talk you into climbing trees near the cliffs again."
"I won't," I said quickly. "We're just fishing."
He narrowed his eyes slightly, the way he always did when trying to decide if I was telling the whole truth. Then, with a nod, he reached for the eggs.
Breakfast passed in peaceful conversation—light teasing from Father, gentle reminders from Mother, and a quiet joy that filled the space between the words. We were not a loud family, but we didn't need to be. Everything worth saying found its way out in time.
When the plates were cleared, Mother handed me a small pouch tied with blue thread.
"What's this?" I asked, turning it over.
"Dried elderberries and a bit of honeycomb. For the walk," she said simply.
"I can't take all your honey—"
She waved me off. "It's not for you, it's for sharing."
I smiled and slipped the pouch into my satchel. "Thank you."
Father stood and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Be back before sundown."
"I will."
"Good. We'll need help with the coop later. One of the hens looks ready to fly south on her own."
I laughed, gave them both a quick hug, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
The path to the creek would take me through the heart of the village, past the old blacksmith's forge, the chapel, and the ivy-covered wall where Thom and Elias would already be waiting. But for now, I paused in front of the cottage, breathing in the clean, pine-sweet air.
I looked back at the doorway, still ajar behind me, sunlight catching the edge of the woven mat Mother had laid just last week.
I smiled to myself.
Today would be a good day.
The village of Marlow was stirring gently, like bread dough rising with the warmth of dawn. As I walked past the forge, I saw old Master Callum wiping soot from his face, nodding to me with a grunt that served as both greeting and farewell. The chapel bell had rung twice—once for the morning prayer, once to mark the hour. I quickened my steps.
Thom and Elias were waiting where the wall bent eastward, just beyond the ivy gate. Thom sat perched on a stump, legs swinging, while Elias was lying in the grass, arms folded behind his head like he had all the time in the world.
"There he is," Elias said, shielding his eyes as I approached. "Jack the Woodsman."
"Jack the Fisherman today," I replied, tossing a pinecone at him. He caught it with ease and tossed it aside.
"Your father still making you stack logs in straight lines?" Thom asked with a grin.
"As if he wouldn't notice if one was crooked."
"Come on," Elias said, pushing himself up. "Let's get to the creek before someone else takes our spot."
The path down to the creek twisted through the edge of the forest, where pine needles softened our steps and sunlight filtered through the tall trees like a curtain of gold. We talked about nothing and everything—Elias retelling a story of a fox sneaking into the henhouse, Thom arguing about who could climb higher in the old maple tree, and me half-listening, half-watching the way the morning light played across the mossy stones.
The creek ran wide and clear today, bubbling over stones as smooth as glass. We each picked a spot, pulled out our lines—simple twine with carved wooden hooks—and baited them with earthworms we'd gathered the day before.
For a while, there was only the sound of water, birdsong, and the occasional splash.
Elias caught the first trout. "He's a fat one!" he cried, holding it up. The fish squirmed, silver scales flashing.
"I'll get the next," Thom said confidently.
I didn't speak. I didn't need to. I watched the current, felt it pull at my line, and let the quiet settle inside me.
The hours passed like clouds drifting overhead—slow, soft, uncounted. We shared Mother's elderberries when the sun reached its peak, and I let them taste the honeycomb.
"This is good," Elias said, his voice a little softer.
"Your mother's got magic in her hands," Thom added.
I nodded. I had always known it.
We stayed until the shadows stretched long and the air grew cooler. Our hands were muddy, our tunics damp from splashes, and our satchels carried the weight of the day's catch—five trout between us. Not bad.
As we walked back, Thom began to whistle an old tune. Elias joined in, and soon I did too. It didn't matter that we missed notes or forgot the words. We were together. That was enough.
At the edge of the village, we parted ways.
"See you tomorrow?" Elias asked.
"After chores," I said.
"Always after chores," Thom groaned.
I waved and turned down the lane toward home. The cottage stood warm and waiting, smoke curling from the chimney, the last light of day resting on the roof like a golden crown.
When I stepped through the door, Mother looked up from her spinning. "There you are."
"Caught three," I said proudly.
"Then you'll help clean them."
"Of course."
Father emerged from the coop, wiping his hands. "You're back just in time. One of the hens did try to fly south."
I laughed, setting down my satchel. The day had been long, but it had been good.
That night, as we ate the trout by candlelight, I looked at my parents and felt a quiet fullness settle in my chest. This life, with all its small joys and steady rhythms, was more than I had ever dreamed.
And deep within, I gave thanks once more—to the Man of the Moon, to the village, to the river, to everything that had led me here.
Ke rumah.
As the candle burned lower and shadows climbed the wooden beams, I lingered at the table, staring at the flickering flame. My mother hummed softly as she gathered the dishes, her voice weaving through the warm air like thread through cloth. Father leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his eyes half-closed but listening.
I felt it again—that feeling I could never quite name. Not just gratitude. Not just peace. Something deeper. A belonging that wrapped around my heart like a second skin. This wasn't just a new life. It was my life.
I rose quietly, kissed my mother on the cheek, and murmured goodnight. She smiled without words, brushing my hair from my forehead like she had when I was smaller.
Upstairs, beneath the thick quilts, I lay awake for a while. The sounds of the house—floorboards settling, the wind outside, Father's low voice murmuring downstairs—lulled me into a gentle stillness.
Before sleep took me, I looked out the window one last time. The moon hung low, like a silver watchman keeping his promise.
"Thank you," I whispered into the dark.
And then, I slept.