Morning After the Search
The night of fear had melted into morning light.
Dew glistened on the rice leaves, and smoke rose softly from every home in Fernstead.
The searchers, tired and heavy-eyed, walked slowly back from the woods.
My father, Paul, led them the young chief of the village, shoulders broad but spirit worn from worry.
Beside him walked Mr. Gareth, his old friend, and the rest of the village men, their torches burnt out and dripping with ash.
No one had slept.
When they reached our house, they found the door already open.
Inside, my mother Elisha sat on a mat with me lying across her lap, tiny hands clutching her clothes.
Over her shoulder, sleeping soundly, was little Anna, the girl everyone had searched for through the night.
My mother's voice was soft and calm.
"She's safe," she said. "She crept back while everyone was gone."
For a heartbeat, the men only stared then, one by one, laughter broke out.
At first small, then louder, rising like sunlight through the room.
Even the children who had followed behind began to laugh and cry at the same time.
Goru, his face still wet with tears, clung to Mr. Gareth's leg.
Jack stood nearby, trying to hide his red eyes, muttering,
"Told you she'd be fine."
But no one believed him.
They only laughed harder.
The fear of the night had vanished; all that was left was joy and the story that would soon travel through the whole village:
The night Anna went missing but was found sleeping by the fire.
That morning became a memory.
A story the elders would tell again and again.
Even though I was just a baby, I could still hear the laughter echoing through our small wooden home laughter so bright it filled the air like music.
The Rice to Render
By afternoon, the sun was high again, turning the water in the paddies into mirrors.
Life in Fernstead had returned to its rhythm.
My father and Mr. Gareth worked side by side, lifting baskets heavy with rice, tying them onto the backs of two small wagons pulled by horses.
The rice would be taken to the city Render, the same shining city where my aunt Merlin served as a town guard captain.
Children chased after the wagons, waving goodbye.
Goru ran among them, holding Anna's hand tightly as if afraid to lose her again.
Jack walked behind, still called the Rice Hero, pretending to hate the name but smiling all the same.
The adults laughed.
The children sang.
And the smell of ripe rice drifted through the air warm, clean, alive.
That day, Fernstead returned to peace once more.
The sound of hammers, laughter, and carts rolling toward Render filled the air.
No one spoke of fear again.
Only of the harvest, the journey, and the simple joy of being together.