The sun had barely lifted above the misty ridges when the sound of an axe split the quiet air. Elias Blackthorne's calloused hands bit the haft with practiced rhythm, each swing biting into the birch. His back ached, but it was an honest pain — nothing like the wounds of war.
Just outside the cabin, Margaret Blackthorne knelt among neat furrows in the earth, her shawl fluttering in the breeze. Her fingers brushed loose soil from a pulled carrot before setting it into her basket. Her hair, touched faintly with silver, was tied back simply, without the stylish fuss that women in town wore.
Along the fence, Thomas — broad-shouldered for sixteen and eager to prove a man — was mending a gate hinge. He worked with more determination than skill, but his father let him be; the boy's pride was worth a crooked nail or two.
Near the creek, Emily sang a frontier melody in a voice pure and high. She stooped occasionally to feed crumbs to the ducks that clustered around the water.
From the road came a figure on foot, thin as a withered tree and limping. The man's clothes were sewn with patches over patches, his face shaded under a ragged hat.
Margaret was the first to notice. She set down her basket, approaching without hesitation.
"Good sir," she called, "you look near to collapse. Come — we'll see you with food."
The stranger doffed his hat, eyes downcast in humility. "I'd not trouble you, ma'am—"
"It's no trouble," she cut in gently. "Only decency."
Elias watched, leaning on his axe. Even after twenty years of war, of suspicion and the endless wheeling of politics and treachery, Margaret's kindness never wavered.
They fed the man — bread, stew, a clean cup of water — while Emily perched on his knee telling a tale about catching tadpoles. Thomas brought the man a spare wool blanket for the road ahead.
For Elias, these moments had become his salvation. He'd spent enough years taking lives — here was a life spent giving.
He could not guess the price they'd all pay for it.