Morning light spills through my window, soft and golden.
The day begins like every other, but today I carry something new in my satchel—my paints and cloth.
First, the chores.
I fetch water from the well, careful not to spill. The bucket is heavy, but steady hands make it lighter.
I help Ma in the garden, pulling weeds and checking the tomatoes. She hums her song, and I hum along, though I'm off-key.
Pa asks me to fix a broken wheel on the cart. I roll up my sleeves and work until the axle fits just right. His nod when I'm done feels like a prize.
After chores, I wander the village, carrying my paints and cloth like a secret treasure.
I visit Miss Darya's house. She's tending to her herbs and tells me stories about her late husband's misadventures. I laugh softly and offer to paint her garden.
She watches quietly, eyes soft with memories, as I dab colors onto the cloth.
"It's lovely, Ember," she says.
I continue to the chapel, where the sunlight falls through stained glass in reds and blues.
I try to catch the way the colors scatter across the stone floor. It's hard to hold light in paint, but I try anyway.
By midday, I'm home again.
Ma is kneading dough, flour dusting her arms. Pa is sharpening his sickle, muscles moving with steady rhythm.
I set up outside, under the elm tree.
I paint them—their hands, the lines on their faces, the quiet love between us.
Ma's eyes sparkle with patience. Pa's brow is furrowed in concentration but softened when he glances at me.
I don't think I need to paint their smiles. I want to catch the feeling beneath—the steady strength, the home they built with quiet hands.
As the sun sinks low, I hang my paintings around the hearth.
Each one holds a piece of today—the village, the work, the people I love.
No magic needed.
Just time, care, and the steady heart of home.