CHAPTER 2 - IN THE ORANGE LIGHT

  Morning did not arrive all at once. It gathered slowly along the rim of the mountains, pressing pale light into the valley as if testing whether it was welcome.

  The fields held their breath beneath a thin silver mist, and the houses stood still, small and waiting. From a distance, the village looked untouched — as though nothing had happened at all.

  Inside the largest house at the edge of the orchard, the fire had already begun to fade into red embers. Rowen stirred first, as he always did, rising carefully so the bed would not creak beneath him.

  Maren shifted but did not wake. Beyond their door, Eliza’s soft snore drifted faintly down the hallway — uneven, stubborn, and entirely unaware of the world beyond her blankets.

  Rowen dressed quietly and stepped into the hall, pausing for a moment as he listened. The house sounded ordinary — wood cooling from the night, wind grazing the shutters — but he found himself standing there longer than necessary.

  He told himself it was nothing. The council meeting had simply left too many thoughts in his head.

  In the kitchen, he added kindling to the hearth and watched the flames take hold. The small, practical movements steadied him — stacking wood, setting the kettle, slicing bread with a familiar hand.

  Outside, the mist had begun to thin, revealing the orchard row by row, as if the morning were slowly remembering the world.

  Maren entered a few minutes later, tying her hair back as she crossed the kitchen. She did not speak at first. She rarely did in the mornings. Instead, she placed a hand lightly against Rowen’s back as she passed him — a small habit, almost unconscious.

  “You were awake early,” she said at last, her voice still carrying sleep.

  “So were you,” he replied.

  She poured water into the kettle and glanced toward the window. The mist outside was thinning now, revealing the low stone wall at the edge of their yard. Her gaze lingered there a moment longer than necessary.

  “Will they speak of it again today?” she asked quietly.

  Rowen did not answer immediately. He adjusted the fire instead, watching sparks rise and vanish.

  “I think they will,” he said.

  Before Maren could reply, a loud thud echoed from the hallway, followed by a muttered, “Ow.”

  Eliza appeared in the doorway a moment later, one sock on, hair entirely undefeated by sleep.

  “I slipped,” she said, as if delivering urgent news.

  “You tripped over your own blanket,” Maren corrected gently.

  “It attacked first.”

  Rowen huffed a quiet laugh and set another plate on the table. The ordinary rhythm of it — the small arguments, the crooked sock, the kettle beginning to whistle — pressed against him like something protective. Whatever the village carried outside their walls, inside this kitchen there was still warmth.

  Eliza climbed into her chair and reached immediately for the bread. “Are we having honey?”

  “If you sit properly,” Maren said.

  Eliza finally won against the honey jar and declared it a fair fight. Maren shook her head, smiling, and reached for another slice of bread.

  Rowen stood.

  “I’ll get more wood.”

  “There’s enough,” Maren said.

  “For later.”

  He stepped outside.

  The cold met him properly now — not through a window, but against his face. The yard was waking slowly. Mist thinning. Fence clear. Orchard quiet.

  The cart near the shed caught his eye.

  It wasn’t wrong. Not exactly.

  Just not where he remembered leaving it.

  Rowen walked toward it, boots darkening with dew. He circled once, slow, practical. One wheel pressed deeper into the ground than the others.

  Rowen bent slightly, adjusting the wheel with his boot. The cart did not move.

  That was when he heard it — faint, uneven, tucked somewhere beneath the wood.

  He straightened slowly.

  “Hello?” he called, not loudly.

  The breathing paused.

  Not wind, then.

  Rowen stepped around to the other side and crouched, one hand resting on the edge of the cart. The space beneath was narrow, shadowed by the slant of morning light.

  At first he saw only hay and the dark shape of bundled cloth.

  Then the cloth shifted.

  Two eyes opened.

  They did not look startled.

  They looked awake.

  The boy did not move.

  He lay half-curled on the packed earth beneath the cart, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting lightly across his chest. His clothes were worn but intact. Boots still on. Laces pulled tight. Nothing about him suggested carelessness.

  Rowen waited for the usual response — scrambling apology, hurried explanation.

  It did not come.

  The boy simply watched him.

  Not defiant.

  Not afraid.

  Measuring.

  “You’re in my yard,” Rowen said evenly.

  The boy blinked once. “I know.”

  His voice was steady, touched only faintly by the cold.

  Rowen studied him more closely. Eleven, perhaps. Lean in the way of children accustomed to long distances. Dirt at the cuffs, but no neglect in it. This was not a child abandoned. This was a child accustomed.

  “Did you come through the orchard?” Rowen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The gate was closed.”

  “I climbed.”

  No pride in it. Just fact.

  “What were you doing under my cart?”

  The boy pushed himself upright, brushing loose hay from his sleeve.

  “Sleeping.”

  “In my yard?”

  “It was quiet.”

  Rowen leaned back slightly on his heels. “The cart isn’t meant for that.”

  “It was dry.”

  Silence settled between them — not awkward, not hostile. Simply careful.

  Rowen let a breath pass before asking, “Where did you come from?”

  “The mountain.”

  The word carried more weight than it should have.

  Rowen felt it before he reacted to it. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly, shoulders tightening.

  “From the ridge?” he asked, more quietly now.

  “Yes.”

  There was no hesitation.

  Rowen rose to his feet, slower than before. “And what brings you down from there?”

  The boy met his gaze without wavering.

  “I’m looking for my grandfather.”

  For a moment, Rowen said nothing.

  Grandfather.

  The word settled heavily in his chest. There were not many men on that mountain, and fewer still who would leave a boy alone long enough for him to come searching.

  He studied the child again — the steady eyes, the deliberate stillness.

  Suren.

  The name did not need to be spoken aloud.

  Rowen had sat at the council table two nights ago while voices argued over distance and timing and what ought to be told. He had watched men nod solemnly over explanations that felt too clean.

  Accident.

  A misstep near the ridge.

  He had not argued loudly. He rarely did. But he had not believed it either.

  And now the mountain had sent something down in answer.

  Rowen became aware of the cold again. The boy had no coat thick enough for a second night outdoors.

  “What is your grandfather’s name?” he asked, though he already knew.

  The boy did not hesitate.

  “Suren.”

  He said it plainly. Not as a plea. Not as an introduction. Simply as truth.

  Rowen felt the confirmation settle through him like cold water.

  “Yes,” he said without raising his voice. “I thought so.”

  The boy’s gaze sharpened slightly at that.

  “You know him?”

  Rowen held that look for a moment before answering. “I did.”

  The smallest pause.

  The boy caught it.

  Rowen saw the change — not in the boy’s posture, not in his face — but in the way his attention narrowed.

  “When did you last see him?” Rowen asked.

  “Day before yesterday morning.”

  Rowen exhaled slowly through his nose.

  “He hasn’t come back,” the boy added. Not a question. A statement.

  “No,” Rowen said.

  The word sat between them.

  The boy rose fully to his feet now, dusting his hands against his trousers. He was nearly level with Rowen’s shoulder.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  Rowen held the boy’s gaze for a moment longer.

  “It’s cold,” he said at last. “Come inside.”

  The boy did not move immediately.

  “I’ll take you to him,” Rowen added.

  That was enough.

  Silas stepped out from beneath the cart without another word. He did not look back at the shed. He did not brush himself off further. He simply followed.

  Rowen led the way across the yard, aware of the distance between them — three steps, always three. Not hesitant. Just deliberate.

  At the door, Rowen paused.

  “You’ll need to wipe your boots,” he said, almost automatically.

  The boy glanced down at the mud-darkened leather, then back up.

  He wiped them carefully against the mat.

  Rowen opened the door.

  Warmth met them at once — firelight, bread, honey, the faint scent of tea leaves steeping.

  Eliza looked up first.

  She froze.

  “There’s a boy,” she announced unnecessarily.

  Maren turned.

  Her expression shifted in a way Rowen knew well — surprise first, then assessment, then quiet understanding.

  Rowen removed his coat slowly.

  “He’s come down from the mountain,” he said.

  That was all.

  And it was enough.

  Silas stopped just inside the doorway, the warmth striking him first. His eyes moved once around the room — table, hearth, window, shelves — taking in details without appearing to linger on any of them.

  “This is Silas,” Rowen said, though the boy had not offered his name yet.

  Silas did not correct him.

  Maren stepped forward, drying her hands on a cloth. “You must be freezing,” she said gently. “Come. Sit.”

  Silas obeyed without protest, choosing the chair nearest the door. He sat upright, hands resting on his knees, as though prepared to stand again at any moment.

  Eliza watched him openly. “Did you really climb the orchard fence?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It was there.”

  Rowen cleared his throat lightly. “Eliza.”

  She sank back into her seat but continued staring.

  Maren placed a plate before Silas. Bread first. Then honey. Then a cup of tea.

  He did not reach for it immediately.

  “Eat,” Rowen said.

  Silas nodded once.

  He took the bread carefully, breaking it in half before spreading honey in a thin, deliberate line. No rush. No grabbing. But when he finally lifted it to his mouth, he ate with quiet focus, as if calculating how much he would need.

  Rowen noticed everything.

  The way Silas did not speak unless addressed.

  The way his gaze returned often to the window facing the mountain.

  The way he listened more than he answered.

  “You said you were looking for your grandfather,” Maren said gently, once the first hunger had eased.

  Silas swallowed before replying.

  “Yes.”

  “When did you come down?”

  “Last night.”

  “And you stayed in the yard?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t knock?”

  Silas paused.

  “I didn’t know this house.”

  The answer was simple. Practical.

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  Rowen watched him over the rim of his cup.

  “You were searching the village?” he asked.

  Silas nodded.

  “I went to the square first,” he said. “Then the lower path. Then the well.”

  “You know the village?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  That was not the same as knowing it.

  “And then?” Rowen asked.

  “I waited at the mountain entrance.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until the wolves started.”

  Eliza’s eyes widened. “You heard wolves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  Silas looked at her, not unkindly.

  “No.”

  Rowen felt something tighten in his chest.

  When the last of the bread was gone and the tea had cooled, Maren stood.

  “You’ll need warm water,” she said gently, already moving toward the stove.

  Silas looked up.

  “For what?”

  “For washing.”

  “I’m clean.”

  Maren did not smile. She only tilted her head slightly, as if examining him from a different angle.

  “You slept under a cart.”

  “It was dry.”

  Rowen almost hid his amusement.

  Maren poured water into a basin and carried it toward the small washroom near the back of the house.

  “Come,” she said.

  Silas did not move.

  “I can wash in the river,” he said.

  “There’s frost on the banks,” Rowen replied. “And the river runs cold this time of year.”

  A muscle flickered once along his cheek.

  “I’ve washed there before.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Maren said softly. “But you’re here now.”

  The words were not forceful.

  They were practical.

  Silas remained seated for another breath — not defiant, not dramatic — simply deciding whether this was a battle worth having.

  It wasn’t.

  He stood.

  “I don’t need help,” he added.

  “No one said you did,” Maren replied, opening the washroom door.

  The washroom was small but warm, steam already beginning to gather along the wooden beams.

  Maren placed the basin near the stool and folded a clean cloth beside it.

  “There’s soap,” she said. “And a towel behind the door.”

  Silas nodded once.

  She did not linger. She closed the door gently behind her.

  For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint crackle of fire from the kitchen beyond the wall.

  Silas stood still.

  The air smelled different in here — not pine and stone and damp earth — but ash, linen, and something faintly floral from the soap.

  He crouched and dipped his fingers into the basin.

  Warm.

  Not river-warm. Not sun-warm.

  Deep warmth. The kind that stayed on the skin.

  He hesitated only briefly before pulling his coat over his head.

  Dust fell first.

  Then small pieces of dry grass.

  He washed without hurry, but without indulgence either — face, neck, arms, the line of his shoulders. The water clouded slowly.

  When he poured a second basin over his hair, the warmth slid down his spine and settled there, unfamiliar and steady.

  He did not close his eyes.

  He did not relax.

  But something in his breathing changed.

  Less guarded.

  When he finished, he wrung the cloth carefully and set it aside. He dried himself in deliberate motions, as if learning the shape of the towel’s softness.

  His old clothes lay folded in a neat stack on the stool. He did not look at them immediately.

  For the first time since leaving the mountain, he felt the absence of wind against his skin.

  And it unsettled him.

  When Silas opened the washroom door, steam followed him into the hallway.

  Maren was waiting with a folded bundle in her arms.

  “These should fit well enough,” she said, handing them to him.

  The fabric was heavier than what he had worn before. Thick wool shirt. Plain trousers. A belt already threaded through the loops.

  Silas took them carefully.

  “They’re Rowen’s,” Maren added, not apologetically. Simply fact.

  Silas glanced toward the kitchen where Rowen stood near the window.

  Rowen did not look at him immediately. He was stacking wood by the hearth, movements steady.

  “You can keep them,” Maren said. “For now.”

  Silas nodded once and stepped back into the washroom to change.

  The trousers were slightly loose at the waist, the shirt broader at the shoulders. He rolled the sleeves once, then again. The wool scratched faintly against his skin — not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

  When he stepped back into the kitchen, the difference was immediate.

  He looked younger.

  Not because he was small, but because the mountain had been stripped from him in small layers.

  Rowen turned then.

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  The clothes were not his — but they held.

  Rowen gave a small nod.

  “They’ll do.”

  Silas looked down at the sleeves, adjusting the cuff again.

  “They’re heavy,” he said.

  “They’ll last,” Rowen replied.

  The house grew quieter as the morning settled.

  Eliza’s voice could be heard faintly from the yard, arguing with a stubborn piece of wood. Maren moved about the kitchen in small, practical motions — rinsing a cup, folding a cloth, adjusting something that did not need adjusting.

  Silas stood near the hearth.

  He had not sat back down.

  The firelight caught in his stillness, outlining the too-large sleeves at his wrists.

  Rowen felt the weight of it before he looked up.

  The boy wasn’t impatient.

  He was choosing his moment.

  When he spoke, it was direct.

  “Take me to my grandfather.”

  No sharpness. No tremor.

  Just decision.

  Rowen did not answer immediately.

  He rested one hand on the back of a chair and studied the floorboards instead of the boy.

  There were ways to delay this. There were ways to soften it.

  None of them would help.

  “We will go,” he said at last. “This evening.”

  Silas’ brow shifted faintly.

  “Why not now?”

  Rowen lifted his eyes then.

  Because the ground is still fresh.

  Because I don’t know how to say it.

  But what he said was simpler.

  “There’s something you need to understand first.”

  The air in the room changed.

  Maren stopped moving.

  Rowen turned fully toward the boy.

  “Your grandfather—”

  He stopped, not because he did not know the words, but because once spoken, they would not return to silence.

  He chose them carefully.

  “Two days ago, there was an accident near the ridge.”

  Silas’ jaw tightened — not visibly, not enough for most to notice — but Rowen saw it.

  The word lingered in the air longer than it should have.

  “He lost his footing,” Rowen continued, voice steady but lower now. “They found him below the slope.”

  Across the table, Maren’s fingers stilled around the cup she had been lifting. Even Eliza, who had been shifting in her chair moments before, went quiet without understanding why.

  Nothing in the room moved.

  Silas did not ask who “they” were.

  Did not ask how far.

  Did not ask when.

  His gaze remained fixed on Rowen’s face, searching not for explanation — but for weakness in it.

  “And where is he now?” Silas asked.

  Rowen held that look.

  “He’s been laid to rest,” Rowen said under his breath. “In the village grounds.”

  The words did not echo. They sank into the room like stones dropped into deep water.

  The air in the room changed shape — narrower somehow, harder to move through.

  Silas did not blink.

  For a moment, he looked as though something inside him had simply stopped.

  Not broken.

  Stopped.

  His jaw tightened.

  A muscle moved once along his cheek.

  “He wouldn’t slip.”

  His fingers curled slowly into the fabric of the borrowed shirt, as if bracing against something that could not be seen.

  This time the certainty wasn’t defiant.

  It was fragile.

  Rowen did not challenge it.

  Silas’ breathing had grown uneven — not fast, not loud — but as though each inhale had to pass through something tight.

  “He walks that ridge in fog,” he said. “In rain.”

  His voice roughened slightly.

  “He knows where the stone shifts.”

  Rowen held his gaze.

  Silas’ hand, still resting against the table, curled slowly into the fabric of the shirt he wore — Rowen’s shirt — as if the weight of it suddenly mattered.

  “When did this happen?” he asked.

  “Two days ago.”

  The answer came steady.

  Silas looked past him then.

  Not at Maren. Not at the fire.

  At nothing.

  Two days.

  His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.

  “You buried him.”

  It wasn’t anger.

  It was something smaller.

  It was something smaller. Something unfinished.

  Rowen stepped closer, but not enough to touch him.

  “We thought you were still on the mountain,” he said.

  Silas’ eyes flickered back.

  “I was.”

  That landed harder than anything else.

  A beat passed.

  “We’ll go this evening,” Rowen added after a moment.

  Silas did not answer.

  But he nodded.

  Once.

  And this time, it cost him.

  Silas did not speak again.

  When Maren moved to clear the table, he stepped aside automatically, as if the space no longer belonged to him.

  Rowen watched him for a moment, then said nothing.

  There were no more words that would change what had already been spoken.

  Silas crossed the room slowly and lowered himself onto the bench near the far wall.

  Not heavily.

  Carefully.

  He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped, gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the doorway.

  The house resumed its quiet rhythm.

  Wood shifted in the hearth. Crockery touched wood. Eliza’s voice drifted faintly from outside before softening into silence.

  But Silas did not move.

  He did not cry.

  He did not ask questions.

  After some time, he stood.

  No announcement.

  He stepped outside into the yard.

  The afternoon light had grown thin, pale against the orchard trees. The mountain rose beyond them — unchanged, indifferent, immense.

  Silas stopped at the edge of the yard.

  He did not approach it.

  He did not look away.

  He simply stood there, hands at his sides, the borrowed sleeves brushing against his wrists as the wind moved through them.

  From the doorway, Rowen watched.

  The boy looked smaller in the open space.

  Smaller — and entirely alone.

  Silas did not hear her approach.

  Or perhaps he did, and chose not to react.

  Eliza stopped a few steps behind him.

  She followed his line of sight toward the mountain.

  “It looks closer in the morning,” she said.

  No answer.

  She shifted her weight.

  “I tried climbing once,” she added. “Father made me come back before I reached the lower path.”

  Silas’ jaw moved faintly.

  “There’s no path,” he said.

  “There is,” she replied quickly. “It just fades.”

  “That’s not a path,” he said.

  It wasn’t sharp.

  Just factual.

  Eliza considered that.

  “Oh.”

  Silence again.

  The wind moved through the orchard, carrying the faint smell of damp earth.

  After a moment, she said, “Is it very cold up there?”

  Silas did not look at her.

  “Yes.”

  “Colder than winter here?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, as if collecting information.

  Another pause.

  “Was he the one who showed you everything?”

  That one almost broke through.

  Silas swallowed.

  “Yes.”

  Eliza didn’t say anything after that.

  She just stood there.

  Not touching him.

  Not crowding him.

  Just there.

  And for the first time since entering the house, Silas did not feel completely alone in his silence.

  The day thinned slowly.

  The sun did not set all at once; it sank in deliberate degrees, as if reluctant to abandon the valley.

  By late afternoon, the light had changed — not weaker, but heavier. The sun hung low over the fields, round and burnished, turning the dust along the path a muted gold.

  The orchard leaves caught the color first, glowing briefly before surrendering it. Long shadows stretched across the yard, reaching toward the house as though trying to hold the warmth a little longer.

  Inside, the rooms felt smaller in the amber light.

  Silas had returned from the yard without being called. He stood near the doorway now, watching the sun descend toward the ridge.

  It was still bright.

  Still warm.

  But it would not be for long.

  Rowen rose.

  “We should go while there’s light,” he said.

  Silas did not hesitate this time.

  He stepped forward before the words had fully settled.

  Maren was already by the hearth when Rowen turned toward the door.

  Without a word, she crossed to the small wooden table near the window and gathered what she had set aside earlier — a handful of late-season wildflowers tied loosely with twine.

  They were not arranged.

  Just clean.

  White and pale yellow, with one stem bent slightly where it had grown against a stone.

  She held them out to Rowen.

  For a moment, he looked at them as though weighing something more than their weight.

  Then he took them.

  Silas noticed.

  His eyes moved to the flowers, then to Rowen’s face.

  He did not ask why.

  He knew.

  The orange light spilled across the floorboards as Rowen opened the door.

  The air carried the scent of drying grass and distant woodsmoke.

  “We’ll be back before dark,” Rowen said quietly.

  Maren nodded.

  Eliza stood near the staircase, watching Silas with an expression she did not yet understand herself.

  Silas stepped outside first this time.

  Rowen followed.

  The door closed behind them with a soft, final sound.

  They did not take the main road through the village.

  Rowen chose the narrower path that curved behind the last row of houses and climbed gradually toward the western rise.

  The sun followed them, lowering inch by inch, casting their shadows long and thin across the dust.

  Silas walked beside him, not behind.

  He did not look toward the houses they passed.

  His eyes stayed forward.

  The climb was gentle but steady. Grass brushed against their boots. Crickets had begun their low evening rhythm, faint but constant.

  From the top of the rise, the valley opened wide.

  Fields stretched in uneven patches of green and gold. Smoke lifted in thin threads from distant chimneys. Beyond it all, the mountain stood, darkening at the edges as the sun leaned behind it.

  The graveyard rested at the crest — simple, bordered by a low stone wall, weathered and uneven.

  No gates.

  Just an opening in the stones where the path continued through.

  As the stone wall came into view, Silas’ stride shortened by half a step.

  Not dramatically.

  Just enough for Rowen to notice.

  The wind was stronger up there.

  It tugged at the flowers in Rowen’s hand.

  Neither of them spoke.

  As the stone wall came fully into view, Silas’ stride shortened by half a step.

  He corrected it almost at once.

  The opening in the wall was narrow, the stones worn smooth by years of passing hands and shoulders. Inside, the ground rose gently, uneven beneath wind-bent grass and simple markers of wood and stone.

  Rowen stepped through first.

  Silas followed.

  The wind moved differently here — less free, more contained. It carried the scent of soil that had not yet settled.

  Silas stopped.

  Not because Rowen had.

  Because he felt it.

  Fresh earth holds a sharper breath. Damp. Metallic. Unfinished.

  His eyes moved across the markers — not reading, only measuring.

  Then they fixed on one mound darker than the rest.

  The soil there was looser. The grass around it had not yet dared to grow back.

  He walked toward it slowly.

  Rowen came to stand beside him.

  The marker was simple wood, newly cut. The carving still pale against the grain.

  Silas looked at the letters without recognition.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  His voice was steady.

  Rowen glanced at him once before answering.

  “Suren.”

  The name rested between them.

  Silas looked at the soil, not the marker.

  After a moment, Rowen stepped forward and knelt.

  Not dramatically.

  Just carefully, as one does near something that matters.

  “In the village,” he said low, brushing a bit of loose earth back toward the mound, “we don’t leave the ground uneven.”

  Silas watched.

  Rowen pressed his palm lightly over the soil, smoothing it — not flattening, not packing — just steadying it.

  “We make it firm,” he continued. “So it holds.”

  Silas hesitated only a second before lowering himself opposite him.

  He placed his hand on the earth.

  It was still soft.

  Still faintly warm from the day.

  It yielded slightly beneath his palm, as if the earth had not yet decided what it was holding.

  His breath caught — not loudly, not enough to name it — but sharp and uneven, as though his body had reached the truth before his mind allowed it.

  Rowen did not look at him as he spoke.

  “We bring flowers,” he said. “Not because the dead need them.”

  He adjusted the stems at the base of the marker.

  “But because the living do.”

  Silas’ fingers pressed slightly into the soil.

  Not digging.

  Feeling.

  The wind passed over the rise, bending the grass in a slow wave.

  “And we say their name,” Rowen finished. “Once. So it carries.”

  He waited.

  Silas swallowed.

  His hand remained on the earth.

  “Suren,” he said.

  The word did not break.

  But it was no longer certain.

  Rowen nodded once.

  They sat there for a while after that.

  No more instruction.

  No more explanation.

  Only the wind.

  They did not stay long after that.

  The sun had dipped lower, the orange fading into a quieter gold along the valley.

  Rowen rose first, brushing the soil from his palms. Silas remained kneeling a moment longer, his hand still resting lightly against the mound — not clinging, not lingering — just there.

  Then he stood.

  Neither of them looked back immediately.

  They stepped through the break in the stone wall and began the descent.

  The wind followed them down the rise, cooler now.

  Halfway along the path, Silas turned once.

  Not at the grave.

  At the mountain beyond it.

  Rowen saw.

  He said nothing.

  The village lights were beginning to flicker on below.

  “I saw him,” Rowen said after a while.

  Silas did not look at him, but his attention shifted.

  “Day before yesterday,” Rowen continued. “Near the ridge.”

  He hesitated.

  “If I had stayed longer——”

  He stopped.

  The sentence did not finish.

  They walked the rest of the way without speaking.

  Maren stood by the hearth, turning the ladle slowly through a pot that no longer needed stirring.

  The flame had settled into a low, steady burn.

  Across the room, Eliza sat cross-legged on the floor with a scrap of cloth in her lap, though she had stopped sewing several minutes ago.

  “They’ve been gone a while,” she said steadily.

  Maren did not look up. “It’s uphill.”

  Eliza nodded, then frowned slightly.

  “Will he stay?” she asked after a moment.

  The question was not loud.

  It was not casual either.

  Maren set the ladle aside.

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

  Eliza traced the edge of the cloth between her fingers.

  “He doesn’t look like someone who stays.”

  “No,” Maren agreed softly. “He doesn’t.”

  Silence settled between them — not uncomfortable, but thoughtful.

  Eliza glanced toward the window, where the orange light was beginning to thin.

  “Father looks different,” she added.

  That made Maren pause.

  “In what way?”

  “He keeps listening,” Eliza said. “Even when no one is speaking.”

  Maren did not answer that.

  Because she had noticed it too.

  The latch turned.

  Both of them looked toward the door.

  It opened softly.

  Rowen stepped inside first, the last of the evening light outlining his shoulders before fading behind him.

  Silas followed.

  Dust clung faintly to his boots.

  His expression had not broken — but something in it had settled. Sharper. Quieter.

  The room felt smaller with them in it.

  No one spoke at first.

  The door closed.

  And the warmth of the house did not quite reach the corners.

  Rowen removed his coat and hung it by the door.

  Silas did not move far from where he stood.

  Maren stepped forward gently. “There’s stew,” she said, not pressing, not insisting.

  Silas nodded once.

  He sat where he had sat that morning.

  The same chair.

  But he did not lean back this time.

  Eliza watched him openly now, her earlier curiosity replaced with something quieter.

  They ate.

  Spoons against bowls.

  Firewood shifting in the hearth.

  The ordinary sounds felt too loud.

  Rowen spoke once — asking for bread.

  Maren passed it.

  Silas finished his portion without comment.

  When he was done, he did not leave the table.

  He remained seated, hands resting flat against his knees.

  The quiet stretched.

  Not awkward.

  Not hostile.

  Just heavy.

  Eliza opened her mouth once, as if to speak — then thought better of it.

  Rowen noticed.

  He leaned back slightly, studying the boy across from him.

  Silas’ eyes were not on the table.

  They were turned toward the window.

  Toward the dark outline beyond it.

  The mountain could no longer be seen clearly now — only its shape against the fading sky.

  Another long moment passed.

  Then, without turning from the window, Silas spoke.

  “I should go back.”

  The words rested in the middle of the room.

  Eliza blinked. “Back where?”

  Silas turned slightly toward her. “To the mountain.”

  It was not defiance. It was direction.

  Eliza pushed her chair back a little. “You just came down.”

  Silas did not answer that.

  “You can’t just leave,” she continued, her voice quickening. “You don’t even have proper boots for climbing at night. And the wind gets worse after dark. Father says so every winter.”

  “I know the wind,” Silas replied.

  “That’s not the same,” she shot back. “Knowing something doesn’t mean it won’t hurt you.”

  Maren rose then, slower, steadier.

  “Eliza,” she said gently — not to silence her, but to soften her.

  She moved around the table until she stood a few steps from Silas.

  “You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Maren said. “Grief makes the ground feel unsteady. Best not to walk cliffs when the ground is shifting.”

  Silas’ eyes flickered once at that.

  “I can manage,” he said.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Maren answered. “But managing alone is not the only way to live.”

  Eliza stepped closer now, abandoning the table entirely.

  “You can stay,” she said, more quietly. “Not just tonight. I mean— longer. We have space. I can move my things. Or we could clear the storage room. It’s not very big but it’s dry, and—”

  She stopped herself.

  Silas was watching her.

  Not irritated.

  Almost… confused by the effort.

  “You don’t even know me,” he said.

  Eliza shrugged, small but stubborn. “I don’t need to.”

  The room went still again.

  Silas looked toward the window.

  The mountain was only shadow now.

  A shape without detail.

  Maren’s voice came softer this time. “Stay until morning,” she said. “If you still feel you must go, you can leave with daylight.”

  Silas stood there a long moment.

  The fire cracked behind him.

  The house did not press.

  It simply waited.

  At last, he gave a small nod.

  “Until morning.”

  Relief did not burst in the room.

  It settled — carefully.

  Rowen, who had been silent through all of it, finally spoke.

  Only one line.

  “If you go,” he said quietly, “will you come back?”

  Silas did not answer immediately.

  That was answer enough.

  The house had long since gone quiet when Silas lay down.

  The room was small and orderly. The blanket thick. Too warm for someone used to wind.

  He lay on his side, eyes open, listening to the stillness of walls that did not shift or groan with the night.

  Footsteps paused outside the door.

  Not hesitant.

  Measured.

  The latch lifted carefully.

  A narrow blade of firelight slid across the floor as the door opened.

  Rowen stepped inside.

  He did not carry a lamp.

  He did not speak.

  He crossed the room and stopped beside the bed.

  Silas kept his breathing even.

  The blanket had fallen slightly at the shoulder.

  Rowen drew it back into place, tucking it without fuss.

  His hand lingered a moment — then, almost unconsciously, he rested his palm against Silas’ brow.

  Firm. Brief.

  A steadying touch.

  Silas’ breath caught.

  Only once.

  Rowen withdrew his hand.

  “Rest,” he said under his breath.

  Nothing more.

  He stepped back, closed the door with care, and the light disappeared.

  Silas lay awake in the dark.

  His eyes did not close for a long time.

  A faint blue had begun to gather at the edges of the window.

  Not light yet.

  Just the slow retreat of night.

  The shadows in the room loosened their hold, turning softer, less certain.

  Silas was already awake.

  He had not moved in some time.

  The house breathed around him — timber settling, ash cooling in the hearth beyond the door. No footsteps. No voices.

  The blanket remained tucked at his shoulder.

  He looked at it for a long moment.

  Then he pushed it back.

  The floor was cold beneath his feet.

  He stood without sound.

  Dressed without hurry.

  The borrowed shirt he folded carefully and placed over the back of the chair, smoothing it once with his palm.

  Outside, the sky had deepened into clear early blue.

  Silas rested his hand on the latch.

  For a moment, he did not move.

  Then he opened the door without sound.

  Cold blue morning air slipped into the house, carrying the scent of wet grass and pine.

  Silas stepped into it.

  Mist lay low across the yard, thin at first, drifting between the fence posts and orchard trunks. The world felt unfinished, as if the sun had not yet claimed it.

  He walked steadily.

  Past the well.

  Past the last of the trees.

  Each step softened by dew.

  Inside, unseen behind the glass, Rowen stood at the window.

  He had been awake long before the latch moved.

  He did not call out.

  He did not open the door.

  Silas reached the bend in the path where the ground sloped gently toward the rising ridge.

  The fog thickened there, gathering in pale folds along the earth.

  Just before stepping into it, he paused.

  Not long.

  He turned once.

  Not fully — only enough to look back at the house standing quiet in the blue light.

  From this distance, the windows were dark.

  Still.

  He could not see the figure standing behind one of them.

  Rowen did not move.

  Their eyes did not meet.

  After a moment, Silas faced forward again.

  He stepped into the fog.

  His outline blurred — shoulders first, then the sharp line of his head, then the steady shape of him dissolving into white.

  And then there was only mist.

  One footprint lingered in the dew a moment longer than the rest — then the fog erased that too.

  Rowen remained at the window long after the path had emptied.

  By the time the fog swallowed him, the mountain had taken him back.

  And the morning continued, indifferent.