Ryan came bounding down the narrow lane, his laughter ringing out like a bell between the timbered cottages. The sound carried, bright and unrestrained, bouncing off shuttered windows and crooked beams as if the village itself delighted in his joy. Dust clung to his cheeks, and the hem of his rough-spun tunic — one of the few garments he owned — was streaked with mud from the street. His bare feet slapped against the cobbles, quick and sure, hardened by countless afternoons spent chasing geese, tumbling with the other children, darting away from grown folk's watchful eyes.
The lane breathed with the pulse of evening: smoke curled from the chimneys, lazily drifting into the fading sky, where the sun's last light painted the clouds copper and rose. The air was full of wood smoke, damp earth, and the warm scent of bread fresh from the baker's oven. A cart creaked past, its wheels groaning under a load of firewood, and hens clucked indignantly as Ryan's laughter startled them from their pecking. Somewhere beyond the cottages, a blacksmith's hammer rang steady and sure, each strike echoing like a heartbeat through the village.
Ryan sprang forward, passing a furious barking dog that had attacked the geese he had been chasing moments before. His laughter soared again, wild and free, until his mother's hand caught his wrist. Twisting, giggling, his eyes alight with mischief, he protested, "Ma! Stop, I don't need cleaning!" as though the dirt upon his skin were some kind of badge of honour, proof of his adventures.
His mother's voice, soft yet steady, cut through his protest. "Ryan, stay still." She plunged a rag into the basin beside her, the water cool and faintly scented with lye soap. With the practised care of many repetitions, she swabbed the grime from his face, her thumb stroking the curve of his cheek. Ryan squirmed a little, laughter bubbling again, but her patience held. Her hands, worn from labour yet gentle, carried a quiet dignity in their work. She smoothed his hair back from his brow, her emerald eyes shining in the firelight, holding nothing but love.
The cottage behind them was small, its timber-and-plaster walls weathered by years of wind and rain. The hearth crackled within, shadows dancing across the walls, while outside the evening air carried the murmur of villagers finishing their day's work. Ryan's tunic, patched at the elbows and frayed at the hem, told of a family that made do with little. Yet the care with which his mother tended him spoke of devotion that wealth could never buy.
Ryan tugged at the frayed edge of his tunic, his eyes wide with curiosity. "Where's Pa, Ma?" he asked, his voice carrying the innocent lilt of a child who had not yet learned worry. Her hand lingered against his cheek, brushing away a stubborn streak of dirt. "Fishing, dear," she replied softly, her words steady though the faintest crease touched her brow. "He's taking longer than usual to return, but I'm sure it's nothing. Now, how about you get changed and ready for supper?" Ryan hesitated, glancing toward the door as though he might catch sight of his father's silhouette against the fading sky. But his mother's gentle touch anchored him, her presence a quiet promise that all would be well. With a reluctant nod, he shuffled toward the small chest where his spare clothes lay neatly folded, patched and worn but cared for with devotion.
---
The hours stretched thin, like threads pulled taut.
At first, Ryan thought little of it. His father often lingered by the river, patient as stone, waiting for the nets to yield their catch. Supper cooled on the table, the bread hardening at its edges, the stew thickening as it sat. His mother stirred it absently, her emerald eyes flicking toward the door each time the wind rattled the shutters.
One hour passed. Then two. Then several.
The cottage grew quieter, the hearth's crackle the only sound. Ryan shifted restlessly on the bench, his small hands drumming against the wood. "Ma," he whispered, "shouldn't Pa be back by now?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She smoothed her apron, though her hands trembled faintly. "The river can be stubborn," she said, her voice steady but distant. "Sometimes the fish don't come easy."
They ate supper in silence. The head of the house was not there to make silly jokes, nor to speak his gentle words of thanks for his wife and family. The bread sat heavy in Ryan's mouth, its crust harder than usual, and the clink of his spoon against the bowl rang too loud in the hush. His mother's eyes stayed on her plate, though her hand reached once, twice, to smooth the tablecloth as if it might steady her.
---
Later, the cottage grew hushed as Ryan's breathing slowed, his small chest rising and falling beneath the patched blanket. His mother lingered, her hand resting lightly on the coverlet, as though the warmth of her touch might shield him from the unease pressing at her own heart. The fire sank lower, embers glowing like watchful eyes in the hearth. Outside, the wind stirred, rattling the shutters with a restless hand. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening — for footsteps, for the creak of the door, for anything that might break the silence. But only the river answered, its distant murmur threading through the night.