Some folks say a village is just a handful of houses and some dirt roads.
They're wrong.
A village is people.
It's the aching back of Old Joren as he repairs his fence for the fourth time this month because his goats are half-demon. It's the sound of baby Clara crying at sunrise and the whole street knowing her lungs are healthy. It's the warm loaf waiting at Miss Darya's door for the widow two homes down, who won't ask for help but never turns it away either.
A village is a hundred quiet hands doing small things that matter.
Today, mine are among them.
The sun's not yet high when I finish with the well and head toward the fields. Pa's already there, knee-deep in earth, turning soil like it's his second heartbeat. He's always quiet when he works, but it's not a silence that shuts you out—it's one that draws you in. The kind of silence that says, If you listen long enough, the land speaks.
I fall in beside him, grabbing a hoe, and start helping. We don't speak for a while. We just work—dig, breathe, straighten, repeat. The sky stretches endlessly overhead, and birds dart like stitched threads across its fabric.
After a while, Pa finally says, "You're good with your hands."
I look at mine. Not calloused like his yet. But they're learning.
"I try," I say. "You and Ma show me well."
He grunts. That's Pa's version of a compliment.
We finish a row and move on to the next. He pauses to wipe his brow, then looks out toward the village.
"You ever wish you were born somewhere else?" he asks.
It's not like him to ask questions like that. I glance over. He's not looking at me—just at the wheat.
"No," I say, after a breath. "I think… I like that I know every person's name. That I know which tree blooms first in spring. That I can tell when Ma's hiding a smile just by the twitch in her cheek."
Another grunt. But this one's softer.
"I used to," he says suddenly. "When I was young. Thought maybe I'd run off, see the world. Find something bigger."
"What stopped you?"
He chuckles. "Your Ma. And a roof that needed fixing. And a neighbor who broke her leg in harvest season."
"Do you regret it?"
He shakes his head slowly. "Nah. I just found out that bigger isn't always better. Sometimes it's just louder."
I like that. I'll remember it.
We head back for lunch.
Ma's in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, her hands dusted with flour, singing to herself as she kneads dough. The song is soft and wordless, more hum than melody, but it makes the whole house feel like it's exhaling. There's lavender in her hair—she always tucks a sprig behind her ear when she bakes, says it keeps the bad spirits from souring the bread. I think she just likes the smell.
"Lunch soon," she says, without looking up. "Wash your hands, and don't track mud near my table."
I chuckle and obey. You don't ignore Ma's table rules.
Ma is the kind of person who remembers who likes honey in their tea and who prefers mint. She knows who had a bad harvest even if they smile at the market. And she's the only person in the village who can get old Hensha to admit she's lonely.
She's never raised her voice at me, not even once. But somehow, a single look from her when I mess up makes me feel like I've kicked a kitten. She doesn't punish. She disappoints. That's worse.
We eat in quiet comfort—thick bread, root stew, and a bit of cheese Ma's been saving. I don't know what I did to deserve a life this soft. But I know I have to protect it, even if no dragons ever threaten it.
After lunch, I help Ma carry firewood and fix the hinge on the back door. She tells me a story while we work—about how she met Pa at the village festival when she threw a pie at his head for making fun of her apron.
"He said it was frilly," she grins. "So I flung my best blackberry pie. It missed. Hit the priest."
I laugh. "Is that why the priest limps?"
"No," she smirks. "But it didn't help."
In the afternoon, I go around the village, offering help where it's needed.
Miss Darya's roof has a loose tile. I climb up and fix it. She rewards me with a pear and a story about how her late husband used to sing to his pigs.
I run a message to the blacksmith's apprentice—he's fallen in love with the baker's daughter and keeps pretending he needs more nails.
I sweep the chapel's steps because no one else has since last week.
I sit for a while with Joren and help him patch his fence again. The goats watch us like they're planning their next escape.
By sundown, my arms are tired, my back's sore, and my shirt smells like sweat and soil.
And I've never felt more at peace.
That night, I sit outside, watching the stars with Ma and Pa.
Ma sips tea. Pa sharpens a sickle.
I speak, because the silence feels full and good.
"I like our life."
Pa nods.
Ma smiles.
"We like it too," she says, "because you're in it."
And under the stars, with the crickets singing and the fireflies blinking like tiny lanterns, I wonder how anyone could need more than this.