The first morning in Willowmere greets you without ceremony.
No echo of boots in stone halls.No voice calling your name with the weight of a crown.
Just the muted creak of Maika's cottage door as she steps outside, basket hooked on her arm, humming something tuneless that drifts into the fog like it was meant for no one.
You linger a moment longer before following. The air tastes clean here — dew, woodsmoke, the faint sweetness of flowers you don't know the names of. Somewhere down the lane, a rooster shouts its victory over sleep.
Maika hands you bunches of mint to hang from the rafters. Her bare feet pad over the uneven boards, her hair in a loose braid, still catching stray leaves from yesterday. She shows you how to pinch chamomile blossoms so the petals stay whole, and laughs when you come away with the whole stem in your hand.
Now and then, villagers pass the open doorway. They nod. Wave. Their eyes linger, not to measure you, not to question you — only to acknowledge you. Then they move on. No one asks where you came from. No one tries to take the measure of your silence.
Day Two.
The path to the stream is soft from last night's rain. Flowers line the way, white bells bent under the weight of morning mist. Maika calls them moon's breath. When you brush against them, the droplets spill onto your palms, cold enough to sting.
The stream runs clear over smooth stones. You crouch there, filling a carved wooden pail worn with years of use. The cold bites your fingers, but you don't pull away. You watch the water swirl and catch the light, then rise slowly and make your way back.
Two children barrel past you on the road, chasing a rolling hoop. One glances back and grins, wide and unguarded. You don't know them, but for that single step of their run, you're part of the game.
That night, you eat stew thick with root vegetables and herbs. The taste is plain but deep, the kind that stays with you after the bowl is empty. Maika talks through the meal — half stories, half the kind of jokes that don't need a punchline. You answer in nods, sometimes with words. Sometimes with a half-smile that feels strange on your face, but doesn't break.
Day Three.
The willow in the village center sways in a wind you can't feel. Its lanterns dangle low, glass catching light in soft glints. You sit beneath it with your knees drawn to your chest, watching the way the branches seem to breathe.
Maika's tending a garden for one of the elders. You stay. You listen to the soft rhythm of feet on the dirt path, to the murmur of voices that carry no urgency.
There is no task here waiting for you. No trial. No war. Just this slow, unshaped hour.
You think — maybe — you could get used to this.
That night, the quiet presses closer.
It's not the peace of the day. It's the stillness after everyone has gone inside and the lamps are out. A stillness that leaves nothing to distract you from yourself.
You lie on the narrow straw mattress, eyes fixed on the beams above. The smell of drying herbs is everywhere, but another scent edges in — faint, imagined, carried by memory.
Rain on stone. Roses. Cold steel warmed by a steady hand on your shoulder.
The image comes before you can push it away: silver eyes under a crown that cast shadow as much as light. The weight of a presence that was once the only solid ground in a world you hadn't chosen.
Your throat tightens. The ache begins in your chest, small enough to ignore if you keep still. But you breathe — and it grows.
You turn onto your side. Pull the blanket over your head. The darkness inside the fabric is closer, heavier. Your shoulders shake before you even realize you're crying.
At first, it's quiet. A slow leak at the corners of your eyes. But the ache builds, and the sound breaks through — soft gasps that catch on themselves, your fist pressed to your mouth, as if that could keep the hurt from spilling any further into the night.
Faces blur in the dark. Your parents. Friends whose voices are slipping further from memory each day. And him. Always him. Standing tall in the throne room, unshaken by anyone but you.
You don't know why the thought of him now hurts more than it should. Maybe because he's as far away as the rest.
"...I want to go home…"
The words are barely sound. You don't even know which home you mean.
You also know that you can't, wherever home is, it's either too far away or there's no one left waiting for you.
The blanket muffles it. The cottage doesn't stir. Maika is sleeping in the next room, unaware that the guest under her roof is curling in on himself like he's trying to vanish.
The tears slow, but the heaviness stays, lodged somewhere between your ribs. You close your eyes against it, but it follows you down, all the way into sleep.
You dream, but you don't remember of what. Only that, for a little while, the ache is quieter.
The next morning
You wake to the faint sound of water boiling.
The light through the small window is pale and low, stretching in slow shapes across the floor. Your eyes feel swollen. The inside of your mouth is dry.
You stay in bed for a few moments, staring at the wooden slats above, letting the warmth of the blanket cling to you. The ache from last night hasn't gone. It's just quieter, folded into the deeper parts of you where it waits for the next still moment to rise again.
Maika's voice hums in the other room. She's not singing, exactly — just moving through sounds like she's talking to herself without words.
You push yourself up. The mattress creaks under your weight. The smell of herbs is stronger now — mint, rosemary, something sharper that bites the inside of your nose.
When you step into the main room, she glances at you over her shoulder.
"Morning, Stormy," she says, as if nothing's changed. As if she doesn't notice the heaviness in your eyes.
Maybe she does notice. But she doesn't ask.
She gestures toward a small cup on the table. Steam curls from it, carrying the scent of honey and something floral.
"Drink," she says. "Good for mornings when your head's heavier than it should be."
You sit. The chair rocks slightly under you, uneven on the wooden floor. You wrap your hands around the cup. The heat sinks into your fingers, makes your shoulders loosen without you telling them to.
Outside, you hear the soft thud of boots in the dirt. A cart wheel squeaks. Someone calls for their child. Life moving, unbothered.
Maika moves easily around the room, fetching jars, tying bundles, slipping between chores like it's all one slow, unbroken rhythm. You don't need to help. You just sit there, drinking the tea, letting the taste coat your mouth.
By midday, you're walking the narrow lanes of Willowmere with Maika, carrying a small basket of herbs she needs to deliver. The villagers greet her, then you, without hesitation. Their eyes don't carry the weight of suspicion or the sharp edge of curiosity you've grown used to.
You try to smile back each time. Sometimes it feels real. Sometimes it's only the shape of a smile.
A group of children dash past you in a blur of laughter. One drops a ribbon in the dirt, and you crouch to pick it up. When you call after them, they stop, turn, and come running back. The smallest one takes the ribbon from your hand with a grin so wide it almost hurts to look at.
You watch them go, the sound of their steps fading down the lane.
Later, Maika takes you to the edge of the fields where the land folds into low hills. From here, the whole valley is open — gold and green in the slanting light. In the distance, the old willow stands tall, lanterns swaying in a wind you can't feel.
"Good place to breathe," she says. "If you remember to."
You stand there for a while, the quiet stretching comfortably between you.
And though last night's ache is still lodged inside, though it waits for the darkness to return… you let the air fill your lungs. You let it out slow.
For now, that's enough.