Kwaack… kwaack… kwaack…
Tristan woke to the clucking of hens and the soft honk of geese outside his window. Dawn light skimmed the sill. He knelt beside the bed and murmured a short thanks before standing to straighten the sheets. He folded the blanket and tucked it under the pillows—two of them now. For two years he'd had no bed, no pillow, no blanket. What others called routine had become ritual for him: proof that comfort was possible again.
He took a moment to fully wake, then went through the small grace of having a bathroom to himself—clean water at a hand pump, a basin to wash his face, and a wooden shelf for soap and towels. An endless stream of water felt like a luxury. At the camp, water had been rationed by the ladle. Baths were unthinkable. Gargling or even wiping a face was a rare chance, not a habit.
When he opened the front door, a cloud of flies swarmed the threshold. He shut it again at once. He'd need to clear the fallen overripe fruit before the flies and rodents multiplied.
Marla was already at the coop with a small basket on her arm. "Morning," she called, bright as ever. "Six eggs today."
"Good morning," Tristan said, crossing the yard toward the deep well. Hearthstead had a rare blessing: two water sources. The well provided clean drinking water and water for cooking; the stream supplied everything else—washing, irrigation, and troughs for the animals. A small channel had been carved from the stream to feed the garden beds and the livestock pen. Most people would not remark on it. Tristan still did. At the mines, thirst was a daily companion; here, water moved where you asked it to.
Back in the kitchen, even boiling water felt like a small celebration. He set the kettle on the iron stove, struck the flint until a spark caught, and watched the kindling take. Woodsmoke rose and stung his throat in a familiar way; he sometimes breathed it in on purpose and coughed. It was a better smell than mana dust. Better than sweat, blood, and waste—the stench that clung to the barracks at night.
Chores steadied him. Some people called them binding and time-consuming. To Tristan they were freedom. After two years of having every hour commanded by others, sweeping a floor or lighting a stove meant the day was his.
Marla came in with the egg basket. "Want me to trade some of these?"
"It's up to you," he said. "Exchange them for whatever we're short on." He paused, thinking. "If we're going to sell, we'll need a larger coop first."
Breakfast was simple: eggs, bread, and a small pot of tea. They ate in the main room while the neighbor's cat sat at the open doorway like a dignitary, waiting for crumbs. Tristan flicked a bit of crust to him and the cat accepted the tribute with a slow blink.
After clearing the dishes, Tristan folded the small table and brought out extra chairs. The main room shifted from the dining area to classroom. Today was orientation and appreciation day—an invitation to try the violin, to hear it up close, to ask questions. If enough interest is held, training would begin the next week. In these parts, a violin course was unusual. Like an acquired taste, he thought: coaxed, then craved.
By midmorning, prospective students and parents arrived, some walking from nearby cottages, others from across the pasture. They took seats in quiet, curious lines. Three violins were available: two for beginners, one for Tristan's demonstration.
He introduced himself, spoke briefly about posture and basic care, then played. He began with a slow piece—something clear and steady—then ended with a brisk tune that lifted the room. The best advertisement for learning was always the sound itself.
"First come, first served," he said at the end. "We have space for three this term."
Three stepped forward: Trina, Zac, and Elijah. Papers were signed with careful strokes. Lessons would be held in the afternoons, after school.
Marla had a vegetable stew simmering by noon, with fresh bread and a bowl of ripe berries for afterwards. Nothing fancy, but warm and good. The students and parents drifted back to their cottages and fields. The house settled.
An hour later, Tristan sat by the bedroom window to make small repairs. The light fell clean on the table. He replaced a string on one violin, cleared resin build-up on another, and checked a bow's hair for fraying. It was an easy hour of work, satisfying in its neatness.
In the garden, rows of leafy greens stood strong, two weeks from harvest. The irrigation channel trickled along the bed edges. Marla had watered early, so he left the can in its place and pulled a few invasive weeds from the edges. By midday the heat pressed down, heavy and wet, so he moved to the coop.
The afternoon's chore was less pleasant: collecting chicken manure for drying and turning. He spread it thin on an empty patch of packed soil to become plant food later. Then he refilled the chickens' trough with water from the stream and scattered a scoop of feed.
Marla came out with a tin cup and handed it over. "You keep at this and I'll lose my job," she teased.
"Not likely," he said, grateful for the drink. "You run circles around me."
By late afternoon, the light softened across the yard. Tristan returned inside and lit the main oil lamp. The habit was old and hard to shake. At the camp, darkness came with the overseer's shout for lights out, and with it, fear. Here, he kept a lamp burning until sleep took him. He kept another on the bedside stool. A small flame against nightmares.
Dinner came early—roasted root vegetables and a modest portion of cured meat. They ate without much talk, both tired from the day's work. The upkeep of a cottage and a small holding was no small task, especially for a beginner. He told himself, quietly and without drama, I can do this.
After washing the plates, Tristan latched the windows and left only the oil lamps and the low fire in the hearth to light the room. Outside, Hearthstead settled into its evening hush. Somewhere in a neighboring stable a horse shifted, the leather creaked, and the steady sound of breathing followed. Tristan missed his own horse—the one sold to square someone else's debt. The memory pricked, then passed.
Before bed, he stepped onto the porch. A full moon lifted above the pasture, bright and steady. For two years he had not seen the sun or the moon, only felt the heat and guessed at the hour. He lay down on the wooden boards and watched the sky until his eyes drooped.
Marla's voice came a while later, soft but practical. "Poor thing… Tristan, wake up." She nudged his shoulder gently. "Inside you go."
He rose, yawning, and went back through the door. He checked the locks, turned the lamp on his bedside table down to a low glow, and sat at the edge of the bed with the lavender pouch in his hand. The scent steadied him.
It had been a quiet day. Steady. Useful. His to keep.
The Next Morning
The day began the same way: clucks and honks, pink light, and his quiet thanks. He folded the blanket, set the pillows, and washed at the basin. He opened the front door more carefully, broom in hand this time, and swept the threshold clear before the flies gathered. He gathered the spoiled fruit from beneath the small trees and tossed it into a covered bin downwind from the house. Little things made a difference.
Marla called out again from the yard. "Five eggs this time. One's speckled—lucky, that."
"Trade or keep?" he asked, meeting her halfway.
"Keep," she decided. "Your students start tomorrow. You'll need strength."
Inside, Tristan boiled water and steeped tea. While it brewed, he drew up a simple lesson outline for Trina, Zac, and Elijah: posture, holding the bow, finding first notes, listening before playing. He noted where each child had bright eyes in yesterday's brief trial—Trina's quick ear, Zac's steady hand, Elijah's patience. He hoped all three would keep returning. He knew not all would stay.
He fetched a small cloth and wiped the music stands, then set three stools in a neat line. The main room felt different with purpose in it; he liked that. A classroom by afternoon, a home again by night.
When the kettle clicked against the iron, he poured two cups. Marla came in, cheeks flushed from the yard, and accepted hers with a grateful sigh.
"You're getting the hang of things," she said.
"I'm trying," he answered. "Water, wood, food, light. Keep them moving and most troubles shrink."
"Listen to you," she said, amused. "Old farm wisdom in a young musician."
He smiled. "I'll fake it until I learn it."
She laughed and left him to his plans.
Outside, the stream kept its easy pace, feeding the garden. The well pulley creaked as a neighbor drew a bucket. In the distance someone called to a dog, and another voice answered. Ordinary sounds. Good ones.
Tristan stood at the doorway and breathed in the day. For now, this was enough: a cottage with lamps that stayed lit, water that kept running, a garden that would feed them, a lesson to teach, and a handful of names to remember. It was not the life he had imagined as a boy, but it was a life he could shape—one careful task at a time.
That night, when the lamp burned low and the porch cooled, he touched the lavender pouch again. The scent rose—clean and simple—and the day settled into quiet.
Another steady day. Another one he could keep.