Morning light spilled across Greystone's fields, painting the ripening grain in gold. Shithead worked with Maren, hauling wood from the stack by the barn. Each log was heavy, but to him it felt no more than carrying a basket of apples. He lifted, stacked, repeated, his jaw set tight.
He hadn't seen his friends since the game in the meadow. Mira's words still burned, replaying in his mind every time the ribbon on his wrist caught the corner of his eye.
When the chores were done, he climbed the slope behind the cottage and sat beneath the oak, knees pulled to his chest. From here, he could see the village square and, beyond it, the willow by the stream where he and the others always met. They would be there now, waiting. He stayed where he was.
It wasn't long before footsteps crunched the grass behind him.
"Shithead?" Mira's voice, soft in a way he rarely heard it.
He didn't turn. "What do you want?"
"I wanted to say I was wrong." She edged closer, her braid loose, her eyes uncertain. "I thought I was being clever, but… it wasn't funny."
He stared at the dirt between his boots. "You sounded like Garrick."
The words landed hard. Mira flinched, but she didn't retreat. "I'd rather bite my own tongue than be like him. I'm sorry."
Silence stretched, filled only by the buzz of summer flies. Finally, Shithead let out a breath and looked at her. She wasn't smirking, wasn't daring him. Just waiting.
"All right," he said quietly. "But don't say it again."
Her grin broke through then, crooked and bright. "Never."
By the time they returned to the willow, Alan, Tomas, and Lysa were already there. Alan clapped Shithead on the shoulder with a grin that needed no words. Tomas offered a pastry he'd stolen from his aunt's kitchen. Lysa handed him a fresh daisy, tucking it into the ribbon on his wrist.
The group felt whole again.
That afternoon, Mira suggested they prove their bond with something greater than games. "Not chasing each other, not sticks for swords. A real test." Her eyes glittered with challenge. "The old quarry."
Alan groaned. "That's dangerous."
"All the better," Mira replied. "If we're brave enough together, no one can say otherwise."
The quarry lay a mile from the village, a pit of stone long abandoned, its walls sheer and its floor filled with murky water. Parents had warned them often to stay away. But warnings had a way of pulling children closer.
They crept there as the sun dipped low. Weeds grew thick along the rim, and the air smelled of damp stone. Tomas swallowed hard. "What are we supposed to do here?"
"Climb down," Mira said simply. "Touch the water. Then climb back."
Alan shot her a look. "You're mad."
But Shithead felt something stir in him — the sting of Garrick's words, the echo of Mira's slip, the weight of every whisper he'd carried. A test. A chance. He moved first, finding handholds in the rock. His strength steadied him where others might slip.
Alan followed, muttering under his breath. Mira moved like a cat, nimble and sure. Tomas clung to the rock, squealing whenever pebbles shifted beneath his boots. Lysa descended last, careful and deliberate.
The climb was longer than it looked. Dust coated their palms, scraped their knees. But together, they reached the bottom.
The water stretched dark and still. Shithead crouched and dipped his hand into it. The cold bit his skin, but he held it there. One by one, the others did the same.
When they pulled their hands free, Mira grinned. "Now we've all touched it. No one can say we're cowards."
The climb back was harder, but Shithead anchored them, bracing himself to steady Tomas, pulling Lysa up when her foot slipped, lending Alan a hand when his grip faltered. Even Mira, stubborn as ever, took his arm for balance near the top.
They collapsed in the grass at the rim, panting, faces streaked with dirt. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Tomas let out a wheezing laugh. "If my mother knew where I was right now, she'd skin me."
Alan grinned. "She'd skin all of us."
Lysa smiled, brushing soil from her skirt. "Then it's a secret."
Mira sat up, eyes gleaming. "A pact. The Willow Pact. Whatever the village says, whatever whispers we hear, we know who we are together. Agreed?"
They stacked their hands, one atop another — Shithead's broad palm at the bottom, Mira's quick fingers, Alan's strong grip, Tomas's sticky one, and Lysa's gentle touch on top.
For the first time since the festival, Shithead felt whole. The ribbon on his wrist might fray, whispers might follow him, but here, under the willow's shadow, he belonged.