By evening, the house was quiet again. The air outside was cool. The moon had already climbed high, painting the windows in silver light.
The guests had finally gone home, leaving behind the faint scent of tea, the echo of laughter, and an impossible number of blankets.
The Redmoon family's gifts were humble but full of heart. Grandma Therese had sewn swaddling cloths and soft baby clothes from old linen, the edges trimmed with hand-stitching so fine it looked like lace. She had even knitted tiny socks, caps, and mittens, each pair slightly different in color.
Grandpa Tristan—whose hands were more used to holding mugs than needles—had whittled a small rattle shaped like a wolf pup, the wood polished smooth from care.
They had little to give, but what they brought was love measured in hours, patience, and hope. Even the honey jar from their tavern was wrapped carefully in cloth, as though it were treasure.
