A calm and warm shout echoed into Jim's room.
"Jim, it's time to eat," called the serene voice of a woman—gentle, familiar, wrapped in the kind of quiet strength that could only come from someone who'd called his name a thousand times before.
It drifted through the open doorway like sunlight through mist, stirring the stillness of the small room. The voice carried no urgency, only patience. A tone that trusted he would come—not because he was told, but because he was home.
Small trinkets littered the walls of his room some sat snugly on shelves, carefully arranged, while others hung loosely by nail and string, swaying ever so slightly with the breeze from the open window. Each one told a silent story: a smooth stone polished by hand, a bent fork shaped like a fish, a tiny wooden carving of a beast with too many eyes.
The room smelled faintly of dried herbs and salt from the nearby coast. Light filtered through thin cloth curtains, casting soft patterns over the clutter. It wasn't a rich room, but it was lived in—a patchwork of memories, quietly sacred.
Jim sat on the edge of his bed, the blue sheets soft under his hands, worn in the way things got when they'd been around longer than memory. The bed creaked faintly beneath him—not like wood, not really. It wasn't cut or hammered together like the furniture in the market stalls. It grew this way.
He didn't know how.
The frame curved gently at the corners, like tree roots curling under the earth. Where the bark should've been rough, it was smooth—cool and lined with soft ridges that looked like veins. When he pressed his hand to it, he swore it breathed back. Just a little. Like it remembered him.
Jim?" the voice giggled inquisitively, playful and knowing.
Leaping up from the bed, he called back, "I'm coming, Mom!"
He ran through the wooden doorframe, its brown door ajar, catching just a sliver of light from the hallway as it creaked wider behind him.
The moment his feet hit the warm floorboards of the hall, a wave of scent rolled over him—toasted grain, sizzling herbs, something sweet like treefruit peeled and bubbling in a pan. It clung to the air like a hug, wrapping around his nose and drawing him forward faster than his own excitement.
He skidded slightly as he turned the corner into the kitchen, his hand catching the doorframe—again, not quite wood in the way he thought it should be. It had no splinters, no cracks. Just smoothness, shaped like it had grown for his grip.
The kitchen was warm and gold-lit, with slants of sunlight breaking through the thin curtains. Little jars hung from the rafters by twine—some filled with dried spices, others with old stones and feathers his mom refused to throw out. The stove was alive with sound, the pan singing quietly with whatever she stirred.
His mom stood with her back to him, sleeves rolled up, her long blonde hair tied in a lazy knot, a soft hum rising with the steam from the pot. She glanced over her shoulder with a smile already forming. Her presence filled the room like the smell of breakfast—comforting, constant, necessary.
By the window, his brother sat cross-legged on a stool, nibbling at a chunk of bread too early, crumbs smudging his shirt like he didn't care. A small, doe-eyed boy with burnished bronze skin and short blond hair. Tiny antler nubs marked his brow, barely pushing through the skin—normal, like so many others Jim had grown up around.
He looked up at Jim and grinned wide, mouth still half full.
Jim grinned back, brushing his brown hair out of his eyes, and stepped into the warmth of the room—the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the stove.
He ran over to the smooth wooden seat beside his brother and plopped down with a thud, the chair giving a gentle creak under him. Without hesitation, he reached over and ruffled Esmond's hair, sending a spray of fine crumbs scattering from his brother's half-eaten bread.
"Hey!" Esmond mumbled around a full mouth, trying to glare but failing through the grin that was already spreading across his face.
Jim just laughed, leaning on the table with his elbows as the warmth from the kitchen wrapped around them both. Their mother turned from the hearth with practiced grace, a shallow wooden bowl in each hand, steam rising from the mix of grains, root-slices, and lightly seared fruit.
She placed one gently in front of Jim, brushing his hair back in a motherly sweep before returning to her place by the stove.
"Eat while it's warm," she said, not needing to raise her voice. "And don't tease your brother before breakfast. He bites when he's hungry."
Esmond made a growling sound low in his throat, flashing his small teeth in playful warning.
Jim grinned and dug in.
The grain was simple, but good — soft and a little sweet from the seared treefruit, with the savory edge of wild herbs toasted just enough to cling to the back of his tongue. It tasted like every morning he could remember, the kind of meal that settled deep and stayed with you, not just in your stomach, but in your bones.
Across the table, Esmond tore into his second hunk of bread like a starved wolf. Crumbs clung to his chin and scattered down his shirt. When he caught Jim watching, he bared his teeth in a mock snarl.
Jim snorted, shaking his head. "You're disgusting."
"You're slow," Esmond shot back, mouth full, grabbing a pinch of dried berry from the small dish between them and tossing it at Jim.
It bounced off his forehead. Jim made a show of narrowing his eyes, the hint of a grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Their mother turned from the stove with a fresh bowl, one brow raised — not scolding, just bemused.
"If you two start throwing food again, you'll be scrubbing the rafters."
Esmond glanced up at the ceiling. "How would crumbs even get up there?"
"Same way your muddy boots end up halfway down the well path," she said smoothly, setting the bowl aside. "I don't ask. I just clean it."
Jim laughed aloud this time, the sound full and easy in a way it hadn't been in days. The house, old and quietly alive in its way, seemed to soften around them — the trinkets swayed gently on their strings, the fire snapped a little brighter, and the scent of warm bread and herbs thickened the air.
For a little while, there was nothing but that.
A simple meal.
Familiar voices.
The warmth of a place that felt like it would always be there.
Jim didn't realize he was memorizing it — that a part of him, deep in the marrow, was tucking away every sound, scent, and light-shift in that room like a story he wouldn't be able to read again.