The Geesi family were a sweet little family—and the only redheads in all of Dampshire Village. They lived in a small, weather-beaten house perched atop a hill just outside the village limits. It was a modest home, paid for with the promise of their labor—isolated, and a thirty-minute walk from anywhere. The family of five consisted of Nimerah, Andrew, and their three young children: William, age seven; Finley, five; and little Fianna, just three.

  The house itself bore the marks of time and weather. Wooden planks lined the walls, warped and twisted with age. The roof was patched with moss-covered shingles, some missing entirely, allowing the cold wind to slip through in narrow drafts. Small windows, smudged with years of grime, made it hard to see in or out. The front door, heavy and creaking on its hinges, was built for function, not beauty—just a plain slab of wood with a simple knob and latch.

  Inside, the ceilings were low and the space tight, but a small fireplace offered both warmth and comfort. The kitchen held a rickety table and a handful of mismatched chairs, while the rest of the house was furnished with second hand pieces. Hand-painted pictures—done by the children—brightened the walls, and small potted plants rested on the windowsills, their leaves reaching for whatever light broke through the haze.

  There were only two bedrooms in the home: Nimerah and Andrew shared one, Finley and Fianna shared the other, and William had a narrow bed tucked into the corner of the main room. It wasn’t much, but they called it home. More than anyone, Nimerah made it feel that way. She took it upon herself to keep the space clean, the children out of trouble, and their days filled with little joys.

  One of the children’s favorite parts of the day was story time. Each evening, they would gather in the second bedroom: Finley tucked under the covers in his bed, William wrapped in a tattered blanket, sitting beside him with his back against the wall. On the opposite bed sat Nimerah, with Fianna curled up at her side. A candle flickered on a small side table between the beds, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. It was a simple routine, but one they cherished.

  “Okay, which story would you most like to hear tonight?” Nimerah asked, her voice soft and inviting.

  “Can we hear about the edge of the world, please?” Finley asked politely, eyes wide with anticipation.

  “We did that one last night,” William said with a sigh.

  “No we didn’t,” Finley replied, sitting up a little straighter.

  “Yes we did.”

  “Cloudwalkers!” Fianna suddenly squealed. “Cloudwalkers!”

  And just like that, the little voices began to rise and tumble over each other, each child trying to outvote the other, their excitement bubbling into a chorus of overlapping demands.

  “Okay, okay, okay—let’s settle down,” said Nimerah, repeating herself once more as the chatter continued. “Okay, settle down.” Eventually, the room quieted. “Fin, your brother’s right. We did the edge of the world last night. Let’s save that one for another evening.”

  “Fiiine,” said Finley with a dramatic sigh and a spark of mischief in his tone.

  “Your sister would like to hear about the Cloudwalkers. Now, that one we haven’t heard in a while.”

  “She talks about it all the time, Mom,” William groaned. “I hear about Cloudwalkers every day.”

  “Cloudwalkers, please,” Fianna said sweetly, her large mismatched eyes—one blue, one red—pleading with her brother.

  William crossed his arms and stayed silent, unmoved.

  “Pleeeeease,” Fianna begged, drawing the word out as long as her little lungs would allow.

  William glanced at her, then at his mother—who was giving him that familiar oh come on, let your sister have this one look. He sighed, turned back to Fianna, and said, “Fiiine,” with an exaggerated eye roll. “I’ll allow it—but just this one time,” he added, trying his best to sound authoritative, though he was only seven.

  Nimerah chuckled to herself. Honestly, she was relieved. That had been easier than usual—normally, it took at least five minutes of back-and-forth before they agreed on something that made everyone happy.

  “Okay, everyone get comfy,” Nimerah said in her soft, motherly tone.

  The children did as they were told—pulling their blankets up, snuggling closer to one another, or wrapping themselves tighter in the warmth of their covers.

  “It was more than 150 years ago that our ancestors first set foot on Pangia,” Nimerah began, her voice steady and soft. “But where did they come from?” She paused. “They came from a distant land—far beyond the edge of the world. A place of unimaginable beauty. Rivers flowed clear as crystal. Trees reached the clouds, taller than mountains. Fruits and vegetables shimmered with color so vibrant they seemed to glow. Animals of every kind roamed wild and free. And the sky... the sky was alive with wings.”

  She let her words hang in the air, giving their imaginations time to take flight.

  “The winged ones soared through the heavens with great white wings, powerful enough to stir the wind into storms. They were as breathtaking as they were mighty—unmatched in strength and wisdom. They ruled their domain with grace and might. They were called the Cloudwalkers. And we… we are their exiled children. Born at the center of life—Cloudwalkers born without wings.”

  Her voice softened.

  “That’s why they sent us here. To Pangia.”

  “Mom, why were we born without wings? Are we ill?” Finley asked, his head tilting with innocent concern.

  “No, honey. We’re not ill—we’re just different,” Nimerah said gently. “And maybe… maybe that difference means we have a different purpose. For our ancestors, their purpose was to come here, and create humankind. If that hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “Why didn’t they like us?” Fianna asked innocently.

  “Perhaps they were afraid of us—because they didn’t understand us,” Nimerah replied gently.

  “Can we go back to the center of life?” William asked, curiosity flickering in his voice.

  Nimerah considered the question for a moment. “That’s a decision for you to make when you’re much, much older.”

  There was a brief silence in the room, broken by a yawn from Fianna and the soft sound of Finley rubbing his eyes. Nimerah looked around, observing her children for a moment, then decided it was time for bed.

  “Okay, we’ll finish this up another night. I think it’s time we all get some sleep,” she said gently.

  “No, Mom, I’m not ready for bed. I have more questions,” William said first—

  —but before she could respond, all three children’s voices began to overlap in sleepy protest.

  Nimerah chuckled softly. “We’ll save the questions for another time.” She turned to Fianna and carefully guided her into a sleeping position on her pillow, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Night-night, little one.”

  Fianna settled easily, and with her, the protests faded.

  Nimerah then moved to Finley, gently pulling the blanket up to his chin and brushing his hair back. “I love you,” she whispered, planting a kiss on his forehead.

  Finally, she turned to William and gestured with a soft sweep of her hand. Come.

  He rose from the bed without a word. Nimerah picked up the candle, and together, they left the room—her free arm wrapped around his, holding him close.

  In the main room, she placed the candle gently on the floor beside his bed. Once William was lying down, Nimerah tucked him in, then sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

  She looked at him with quiet affection, brushing her hand gently across his cheek as a soft smile formed on her lips.

  “My sweet boy, goodnight,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

  Then, with one last glance, she picked up the candle, rose to her feet, and quietly made her way to the kitchen table to fix herself something to eat. A common meal in the Geesi household was simple: bread with rhubarb jam, usually paired with a cup of mint tea.

  On the table sat a covered half loaf of bread beside a dull knife and a small glass jar of jam. A metal kettle rested nearby, still faintly warm to the touch when Nimerah laid her hand on it. A small handful of mint leaves—some wilted—were scattered near the edge of the table, their scent faint.

  Nimerah lifted the white cloth from the bread, set it aside, and picked up the dull knife. She sliced a thin piece from the loaf, then dipped the blade into the jar and spread a layer of rhubarb jam across the slice. As she took a quiet bite, she crossed the room to a small counter and reached for two mugs. Returning to the table, she began preparing two cups of mint tea—a simple steeping of the leaves. The scent of mint rose softly into the air, blending with the sweetness of the jam still lingering on her tongue.

  Shortly after, Andrew entered the home—and he did so quietly. He wore a thick, tattered brown jacket with a hood, black pants, and muddy work boots. His gloved hands moved with care, and his cheeks were flushed, lips red from the cold outside.

  His eyes met Nimerah’s first. Then, after gently closing the door behind him, he glanced over at William, who was sound asleep.

  Andrew slipped off his jacket and hung it on the rickety coat hanger, revealing a red knitted sweater beneath. He removed his muddy boots, leaving them by the door, and crossed the room to Nimerah. Without a word, he leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips.

  She had just finished the last bite of her bread and tea. Quietly, she slid his mug toward him, the rising steam curling between them.

  “Thank you. This is exactly what I needed,” Andrew said, removing his gloves and setting them on the table. He picked up the cup and took a sip. “Mmm.” A satisfied sound escaped him. “How did they do?” he asked, referring to the children.

  “They were perfectly fine,” Nimerah replied. “We played outside for about fifteen minutes when the sun poked through the clouds. Fin and William were getting along, but William did get a little annoyed with Fianna this evening—she wanted to hear the story about the Cloudwalkers.”

  They both chuckled softly.

  “They went to bed with a little bit of a fuss,” she added, “but settled easily. They should be good until morning.”

  Andrew nodded. “Are you going to be okay tonight?” he asked, placing his free hand on her shoulder and giving it a gentle rub.

  “I have to be. For us… for them.” Nimerah nodded, trying to reassure him with a small, determined smile.

  Andrew nodded again.

  “Okay. Get some sleep.”

  He leaned in and gave her another kiss—soft and lingering.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, before walking off toward the bedroom, leaving his empty cup behind.

  Nimerah watched him disappear. Then, without a word, she stood, walked quietly to the door, and pulled on her work boots. She grabbed a thick jacket from the hook and slipped it on, buttoning it up tight. With one last glance at the quiet house, she opened the front door and stepped out into the night.

  Seventeen years passed, and though the house on the hill remained, time had reshaped the people within it. The kettle began to shriek from its place in the corner of the room, just as it always had, hanging precariously over the fire. With a practiced hand, she reached for the worn oven mitt dangling nearby, slipped it on, and carefully lifted the kettle off the flames. But the hands that moved with such care were no longer Nimerah’s—they were Fianna’s. And Fianna was no longer three years old. She was twenty now. She carried the kettle over to the kitchen table, where a single cup sat waiting, prepped with a few mint leaves at the bottom.

  Nimerah, in contrast, no longer moved from room to room with quiet purpose. Instead, she lay in William’s bed, a poorly knitted blanket pulled up to her chin for warmth. Her voice, when it came, was raspy and weak—still recovering from a recent cold.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "At the center of life, winged beings soared through the skies, their size and strength unmatched as they ruled their vast domain. But when some of their young were born without wings, they were torn from their mothers' bosoms and banished to a land at the edge of the world." She paused briefly to cough before continuing, "What began as a small group of exiles quickly multiplied." She coughed again, her voice straining with the effort.

  Fianna looked at her mother, concern etched across her face as she finished pouring hot water into a mug, dropping in three mint leaves. “Mom, you should rest,” she said softly.

  Nimerah smiled weakly, her maternal warmth still shining through despite her frailty. “I want you to remember the story.”

  “Mom, trust me. I know the story—and I know it well,” Fianna replied, her voice a mix of affection and gentle exasperation.

  The family had decided to have Nimerah recover in the main room, as it was the warmest room in the house and provided her with much-needed comfort.

  Fianna picked up the cup and walked it carefully over to her mother.

  Nimerah sat up slowly to receive it, her movements cautious but steady. “Thank you, honey,” she murmured, before blowing gently on the steaming liquid.

  “I meant it when I said you should rest,” Fianna suggested again, as she surveyed her mother's weakened state.

  But Nimerah waved off her daughter's worries with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Oh, hush. Nothing like a good origin story to warm the bones," she replied, a wistful smile tugging at her lips as she took a sip of the tea. “Is this mint tea?” she asked with surprise, peering into the cup.

  Fianna nodded.

  “I am spoiled,” Nimerah laughed softly. “That Phleshii tea is absolutely horrid."

  Fianna joined in her mother's laughter. "Horrid, but needed."

  Phleshii creatures were a rare and precious commodity, found only on a handful of remote mountain peaks. These small, rock-like beings, about the size of a thumbnail, were masters of camouflage. Their tough, craggy exteriors allowed them to blend seamlessly into the rocky terrain, making them nearly invisible to the naked eye. However, beneath their rugged shells lay soft, delicate innards with powerful healing properties. When carefully crushed, the Phleshii emitted a thick, raspberry-colored juice that was notoriously sour but incredibly potent. This juice had the remarkable ability to cure a cold within ten minutes, a property that made Phleshii highly sought after despite their unappealing taste.

  For Nimerah, the Phleshii creatures were nothing short of lifesavers. Her survival depended on the miraculous properties of their juice, the only thing potent enough to keep her illness at bay.

  "Mm," Nimerah replied, still chuckling. Though her once radiant features had softened with age, a kind of beauty still shone through her tired eyes. Nimerah's hands were now rough and calloused, bearing the marks of many struggles. Yet, despite her hardships, she possessed a quiet dignity.

  "Where did I leave off?" she asked.

  Fianna looked at her mother, her expression a mix of concern and quiet frustration at Nimerah’s stubbornness. “They multiplied,” she replied reluctantly, turning back toward the kitchen table to clean up the small mess left from breakfast—just a few plates, still sitting where they’d been that morning, and then lighting a candle.

  At first glance, it was clear Fianna was her mother’s daughter. As a young adult, she had grown into Nimerah’s features—delicate and striking. Her pale complexion was framed by fiery red hair that tumbled over her shoulders in tangled waves.

  But the signs of hardship were hard to miss. Her hair clung to her scalp with an oily sheen, as though it hadn’t been washed in weeks. Her lips were dry and pale, her eyes tired and slightly sunken. Dirt lined her fingernails, and she was thinner than anyone should be.

  "Ah yes," Nimerah said as her memory jogged, her voice raspy but determined. "What was once a small group of exiles quickly multiplied. But as they multiplied, the land could no longer sustain them. The exiles broke off into groups in search of healthier land, but their search was in vain." Nimerah paused, coughing into her hand before taking a slow sip of her tea, the warmth soothing her throat enough to continue. "Pangia was rejecting the presence of man," she continued, her voice a whisper carried on the breeze of her breath.

  Another bout of coughing overtook Nimerah, her frail body trembling with the effort. Fianna stiffened, her worry tightening like a knot in her chest.

  “Okay, I think we’re done with story time,” she said gently, walking over and reaching for the tea cup in her mother’s hands.

  Initially resistant, Nimerah pulled the cup towards herself, away from Fianna's outstretched hand, but a single, knowing glance from her daughter convinced her to relent. With a sigh, she handed over the cup and lay back down, fatigue etched on her features. Fianna carefully placed the cup back on the worn table, her movements deliberate and gentle.

  "You're too firm with your sick mother," Nimerah remarked with a hint of amusement.

  Fianna smiled back, pulling the threadbare blanket up to her mother's chin. "Well, if my stubborn mother would cooperate, maybe I'd ease up."

  Nimerah chuckled softly, her laughter tinged with gratitude. “You take such good care of me,” she murmured.

  Fianna stared at her mother, struggling to accept the stark reality of her frailty. It seemed as if Nimerah had deteriorated overnight, confined to bed for two months now, her independence slipping away with each passing day. At first, Nimerah managed on her own, but lately, she leaned heavily on Fianna for support.

  Suddenly, Nimerah's expression shifted—from warmth to confusion in an instant. Her eyes, once filled with love, now searched Fianna's face with growing bewilderment.

  "Mom?" Fianna asked cautiously, her smile faltering.

  "Where am I? Who are you?" Nimerah’s voice trembled with fear, her tone thin and uncertain.

  Fianna reached for her mother’s hands, but Nimerah pulled back sharply, panic rising.

  "Where am I? Who are you? What’s happening?" she demanded, her gaze darting around the room in alarm.

  Here we go again, Fianna thought, bracing herself. It was happening more often now—the confusion, the slipping.

  "You’re home, Mom. This is your home," she said gently, trying to ground her.

  "Where’s Andrew? Where are my boys?" Nimerah’s voice cracked, panic swelling in her chest.

  Fianna swallowed the ache that rose in her throat.

  "They’re on their way. They’ll be here soon—in just five minutes."

  "Really?" Nimerah’s eyes flickered with hope, just for a moment.

  "Yes," Fianna nodded, her voice warm and steady. "They’re on their way. I promise."

  Nimerah clutched the blanket tightly in her lap. Her rapid breathing began to slow, the fear retreating inch by inch.

  "They’re on their way... they’re on their way," Fianna repeated softly, her voice like a lullaby, anchoring her mother to something—anything—familiar.

  Nimerah nodded slowly. "They’re on their way. Yes, yes."

  Fianna steadied herself. "I'm Fianna. I’ll stay with you. If you need anything, I’m right here."

  Nimerah nodded again, her acceptance tinged with vulnerability.

  Recognizing the need to give her mother some space, Fianna quietly rose from her seat and crossed the room to settle at the kitchen table. She kept a watchful eye on Nimerah, avoiding direct contact to prevent unsettling her further. Minutes passed in tense silence, Fianna stealing occasional glances at her mother until she noticed Nimerah had drifted into a peaceful sleep.

  Letting out a slow, steadying breath, Fianna felt the weight of anxiety release, tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked. She clasped her hands over her chest, using deep breaths to regain control. Gradually, her racing thoughts settled, and she regained her composure.

  Time crawled by, marked by the steady rhythm of Nimerah's sleeping breaths. Nearly an hour passed, during which Fianna abandoned her seat to pace anxiously, her gaze flicking between her mother and the door.

  Finally, the latch turned, and Andrew stepped inside. Fianna dashed towards him, enveloping him in a tight embrace, the tension of waiting melting away in his reassuring presence.

  Upon release, Andrew peeled off his muddy clothes as he always did, then placed a brown bag on the kitchen table—inside, a few precious cups of rice.

  As a seasoned farmhand, his life was deeply entwined with the demanding rhythms of rice farming—a livelihood shaped by relentless rain and rare glimpses of sun.

  Even with Nimerah’s worsening illness, Andrew had no choice but to keep working long hours without rest. The rice he received in compensation, though meager, was vital to keeping the family fed.

  “How is she?” he asked, his voice low, barely rising above a whisper.

  Fianna met his gaze, her expression heavy with unspoken fear. Words formed at the edge of her lips.

  “I don’t think—” she began, but her voice faltered, the weight of her worry settling thick between them.

  Andrew paused, concern etched deeply into his weathered face. “Where are your brothers?” he asked, his voice laced with urgency.

  “I sent them to Shimmer Rock a few hours ago—to search for Phleshii creatures,” Fianna replied, her voice carrying an undercurrent of regret.

  Andrew rested a steady hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing,” he said, calm even under the weight of uncertainty.

  “But the mountain’s a five-hour journey,” Fianna whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “What if they don’t make it back in time?”

  They stood together in silence, the only sound the soft, broken rhythm of Fianna’s sobs.

  “How could we have let it get this bad, Dad?” she choked out, her voice barely audible. “We should’ve replenished the Phleshii stock days ago.”

  Her frustration was raw, heavy with guilt and desperation, as if saying it aloud might undo what had already begun.

  “Honey, this happened overnight. We could not have predicted this,” Andrew said, trying to comfort her.

  That evening, Fianna remained at the kitchen table, unmoving, her gaze fixed on her parents. Andrew, although weary from his long shift on the farm, sat quietly by Nimerah’s bedside, her fragile hand clasped in his.

  Hours crept by with agonizing slowness. There was still no sign of William and Fin. They had been gone nearly eight hours, and the clock had just struck midnight.

  And yet—despite the heavy stillness of the house—something stirred. Nimerah had awakened, mustering what little strength she had to speak with Andrew.

  From her place at the table, Fianna watched as Andrew rose slowly, then climbed into the bed beside his wife, settling in gently beside her.

  In the dim light, their voices carried snippets of conversation. They spoke of William and Fin—reminiscing about their childhood escapades and the mischief they had stirred. They recalled their own youth, sharing stories of courtship and the trials they had faced together.

  Fianna listened from her place at the table, her heart heavy with worry yet warmed by the quiet intimacy between them. Their voices, soft and low, mingled with the hush of the night, weaving a tapestry of memories—of years marked by love, endurance, and quiet sacrifice.

  Though their conversation carried a lightness, the weight of the moment was unmistakable. Andrew did his best to remain strong for Nimerah, but Fianna could see it—the weariness etched into his face.

  Two more hours slipped by, each minute a struggle against exhaustion. Fianna fought to keep her eyes open, resting her head on her arms at the table. Promising herself just a moment’s respite, she felt her eyelids grow heavy. In the dim glow of the fire, the last image that met her fading vision was the bag of rice on the table and her parents holding each other tenderly.

  When Fianna awoke and lifted her head slowly, the room greeted her with a chill and dimness. The once-bright fire in the fireplace had flickered out, leaving the space enveloped in shadow. With trembling hands, she stood, grasping the candle on the table and casting its feeble light toward the bed.

  There, she saw Andrew holding Nimerah’s head against his chest, tears streaming unchecked down his face.

  “Dad?” Fianna’s voice wavered, heavy with concern, but Andrew remained silent and unmoving. She approached the bed cautiously, the candle’s glow revealing the heartbreaking truth: Nimerah was no longer with them.

  Fianna’s heart sank, tears welling in her eyes as she reached out a trembling hand to touch her mother’s still form.

  Andrew looked up at her with eyes red and swollen from grief. He clung to Nimerah’s lifeless body, his arms wrapped tightly around her as if in a desperate embrace—as if he could will her back to life through sheer love and determination alone.

  The candle flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the room, accentuating the silence that now filled the space once occupied by Nimerah’s gentle presence.

  Later that morning, just before sunrise, the front door of the house burst open. William rushed in, his face contorted with anguish, clutching a small brown bag filled with Phleshii creatures.

  Fianna, seated once again at the kitchen table, glanced up, her eyes tracing the path of her brother’s frantic entrance. Meanwhile, Andrew had moved from beside Nimerah to kneeling on the floor beside her, his hands folded in prayer, eyes closed in quiet supplication.

  William’s gaze darted around the room, landing on the bed where his mother lay motionless. Realization struck him like a physical blow, and the bag of Phleshii creatures slipped from his grasp, spilling onto the floor.

  He crossed the room with heavy steps, sinking to his knees at the foot of the bed. Gently, reverently, he placed his hands on his mother’s feet, his head bowed as tears flowed freely.

  Fianna watched William’s sorrowful display, her own grief threatening to overwhelm her. She turned her attention to the door, straining to hear any sign of Fin. Part of her wanted to ask

  William about his whereabouts, to ease her own anxiety, but she knew he needed this time to mourn their mother’s passing.

  Minutes stretched into eternity as William knelt by Nimerah’s bedside, the heavy silence broken only by the sound of his quiet sobs.

  Fianna’s heart ached with the weight of their collective grief, the heaviness of the morning casting a pall over their once-ordinary kitchen.

  Amidst William’s tearful sobs, Andrew rose from his prayerful stance and moved to a chair at the table, joining Fianna. His presence there, though subdued, provided a silent comfort.

  When William finally lifted his head, wiping away tears in an attempt to regain composure, their father’s voice pierced the heavy atmosphere.

  “Where is your brother, William?” Andrew’s question held a mix of concern and urgency, his eyes searching William’s face for answers.

  Fianna’s heart sank as she turned her gaze to William, her apprehension palpable as she awaited his response.

  “Fin fell behind, but he’s okay,” William replied, his voice strained, his eyes still glistening with unshed tears.

  Fianna rose resolutely. “I can go to meet him,” she said firmly, her voice carrying a hint of defiance.

  “He’s hours away,” William responded with a sigh, his tone heavy with resignation. “And you’re too weak, Fianna. You wouldn’t make it far.”

  Fianna’s shoulders sagged slightly at his words, the truth of them settling upon her. She glanced down at herself, feeling the pang of offense but knowing deep down that William spoke from concern, not from a desire to belittle her.

  In the dim light of the kitchen, she could see her own reflection in a metal container close by—a gaunt figure with hollow cheeks and eyes that betrayed her exhaustion. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame. She had been surviving on very little, just as everyone else, but the worry over her mother’s illness had consumed her, leaving little room for sustenance or rest.

  William moved purposefully across the room, gathering the scattered Phleshii into the brown bag.

  Each one represented a hope for their mother’s recovery—a lifeline they desperately once needed.

  “I will go find him and bring him home before the morning is over,” William declared, his voice firm as he placed the half-filled bag on the table.

  Fianna crossed the kitchen, her steps echoing softly in the quiet room. She lifted a cloth-covered bowl from its place beside the sink and carefully uncovered it, revealing a meager piece of leftover bread. With practiced hands, she wrapped it in a clean piece of cloth.

  “Here, take it,” Fianna said, holding out the bundle to William, who stood nearby.

  “Fianna, you must eat,” William protested, hesitating to accept the offering.

  “You’ll be needing it more,” Fianna replied firmly.

  William met her gaze, knowing from her tone that she wouldn’t back down. Reluctantly, he took the wrapped bread from her outstretched hand and tucked it into the pocket of his worn, dirt-stained jacket, appreciating Fianna’s sacrifice.

  As William made final preparations to leave once more in search of Fin, he turned back to the bedside where their mother lay peacefully, her absence palpable in the dimly lit room.

  “What do I tell him?” William asked quietly, his voice betraying the turmoil within him.

  “The truth,” Andrew replied, his voice steady.

  William nodded, his eyes fixed on his mother’s serene expression. He stood there for a moment, lost in his own thoughts and memories, before finally steeling himself and stepping toward the door.

  With one last glance back at the family, he stepped out into the biting cold of the morning.

  The house fell eerily silent once more, enveloped in the heaviness of grief.