I wake before the rooster.
The sun hasn't touched the fields yet, but the sky has started to pale—just a soft gray-blue that always reminds me of my mother's shawl hanging by the door. I lie still under my blanket, listening. The walls creak gently. The wind rustles the thatch. Somewhere outside, a cow shifts her weight in the pasture.
It's not a heroic soundscape. No thunder. No drums. Just the rhythm of life. And I like it that way.
I sit up, rub my eyes, and stretch until my back pops like dry twigs. My blanket slides off, and the morning air brushes against my skin—cool, but not cold. I don't light a candle. I know the path well enough. Down the wooden ladder, careful not to step too hard on the third rung—it squeaks loud enough to wake the whole house.
Our kitchen smells like old flour, woodsmoke, and dried herbs. The hearth's still warm from last night. I kneel beside it and stir the ashes, feeding it a few thin sticks. The flame catches with a lazy yawn, and I grin to myself. Another fire, another day.
Ma always says the hearth is the heart of the home. I think she's right. It's where everything begins—the bread, the stories, the warmth, the comfort. It doesn't look like much, just a square of stone and soot, but it means we're alive. We're together. We're safe.
Soon, I hear the soft steps of Ma behind me. She doesn't say anything right away. She just rests her hand on my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.
"Fire's burning good," she murmurs.
"Just like you taught me," I say.
She smiles and heads to grind the wheat. I know the rhythm of her work like I know the shape of our village. She always grinds clockwise. Always hums the same song.
Pa comes in next, hair wild, eyes sleepy, rubbing his stubbled chin. He nods at me, the same nod every morning. Not big on words, Pa. But he built this house with his own hands before I was born. That says more than most folks manage in a lifetime.
After breakfast, I head outside to fetch water.
The village is awake now, stretching itself into morning. Smoke curls from chimneys. Chickens wander loose. A pair of kids chase each other barefoot, shrieking like goblins. Miss Felda's already tending to her tomatoes, scolding them like they're her own children.
Greywillow isn't much to look at. A few dozen homes, a square well, a modest chapel, a dusty path that leads in and out—mostly out, if you ask me. But it's home. It's where people remember your name, where they cry at your weddings and show up with soup when your dog dies.
I stop by the well, tying the rope to the bucket, and let it drop. The splash echoes faintly.
People think nothing happens in a village like this. That it's dull, slow, small.
But they don't see what I see.
They don't see the way the sun paints the wheat gold every autumn. The way the wind shifts before a storm. The way old man Terrin's face softens when he hears his granddaughter laugh.
There's magic here. Not the kind you find in a wizard's tome or a battle chant. But the quiet kind. The kind that makes a life. The kind that holds you gently, like soil around a seed.
I pass by Milla's house on the way back. There's a black ribbon tied to her gate—still mourning. I pause, wondering if she's eating. Wondering if she slept. Grief's a slow, stubborn thing. Like winter frost. You can't force it to melt. You just have to wait and stay close.
I'll visit her later. Maybe bring one of Ma's honey cakes.
For now, I carry the water home. My arms ache a little, but it's a good ache. It means I'm useful. That I matter in some small way.
Some boys dream of faraway castles and winged beasts. Of blades kissed by gods and destinies written in starlight.
Me? I just want to keep the fire going.
I want to grow the wheat, share the bread, fix the roof when it leaks, and make sure the people I love know they're not alone.
That's enough.
And in a world so loud and restless, maybe enough is rarer than any spell.