By the time the sun began to fall behind the western fields, the village had already forgotten the noise of the morning.
The wind carried the scent of cooked rice and roasted fish through the air.
The sound of laughter drifted from one house to another soft, fading, and full of peace.
Inside our home, the glow of lantern light painted the walls gold.
My father, Paul, sat cross-legged at the table, his shirt half open, his arms streaked with mud from the day's harvest.
Beside him, Mr. Gareth helped pour the rice wine, the two men talking about the weather and the next planting season.
At the far end, Elisha and Mrs. Clara Gareth worked quietly, serving bowls of hot stew and steamed fish.
Their laughter filled the air, light and gentle, weaving through the warmth of the room.
I was lying in my basket, wrapped in a soft blanket, half asleep.
Beside me, Goru sat quietly, still looking guilty even after everyone had told him he'd done nothing wrong.
Across from him sat Jack, his round cheeks puffed up in silence, eyes down on his empty bowl.
The adults had heard everything.
Clara had told them what happened how Jack pushed Goru, how the children panicked, how Goru had fallen trying to protect me.
For a while, no one said anything. The crackle of fire was the only sound in the room.
Then my father suddenly laughed.
A deep, booming laugh that startled even the birds outside.
"A fight?" he said, pounding his knee. "So our children already start acting like warriors, eh?"
Jack's eyes widened.
"I I didn't mean to!" he stammered, his lips trembling.
Paul reached over and placed a huge hand on Jack's head, ruffling his hair roughly.
"Good. Then you've already learned the most important rule of a fight never let pride make you hurt someone you care about."
Jack blinked, unsure if he was being scolded or praised.
Then everyone laughed again — even Elisha, who had been trying to keep a straight face.
Goru still looked down, his little hands gripping his knees.
Mrs. Gareth knelt beside him, smiling softly.
"You were very brave, Goru," she said. "You protected Erin even when you fell. You did what a big brother would do."
At that, Goru's small lips curved into a shy smile.
He looked over at me, still wrapped in the basket, and said softly,
"He didn't even cry much…"
My mother smiled at him.
"That's because he trusts you," she said gently. "And I do too."
The warmth in her voice melted what little guilt remained in the boy's heart.
Dinner went on in laughter after that.
Jack ate until his stomach was full, then asked for more making the whole table burst into laughter again.
Anna crept around the floor beside my basket, tugging at the cloth and babbling happily.
The grown-ups talked about planting, about the rivers, about how the wind was shifting east.
And I, though still a baby, could feel the peace of that evening
the warmth of home, the closeness of family,
and the sound of laughter that made even the lantern flames seem to dance.
That night, before sleeping, my mother hummed softly beside the fire.
Her voice blended with the sound of crickets and the faraway whisper of the paddies.
She looked down at me and whispered,
"Sleep well, Erin. This is your world. Fernstead the village that never fights for long."
And so I slept under the roof that smelled of rice and rain,
in a home filled with laughter,
in a world where peace never seemed to end.