The moment we entered, it was already the living room, decorated with wood darkened by weather and years. The scent of milk, soap and something faintly sweet spilled through the air. It clung to me as I crossed the house, and walked right up the stairs like I've been here before, drawn by the sound of him.
All the soldiers had stayed outside. The door shut with a final click that felt like a lock slamming shut inside my chest.
The moment I reached his room, it was small, plain. His things, the ones I've bought, were all here, decorating the place. A fire burned low in the hearth, throwing light across a rug, worn thin. And there, in a rocking chair by the window, an old woman sat, cradling a bunch of blankets.
It didn't take long for me to recognize who she was. The woman, the healer, who have helped me with the birth. She was alive.
