William Thatcher learned the rhythm of the world long before he learned its dangers.
He learned it in the soft creak of his family's cottage as it settled each night. In the steady breath of wind through wheat. In the scrape of boots on packed earth and the familiar clatter of tools at dawn. He learned it in the small, ordinary moments that passed so quietly they seemed unimportant—until they were gone.
On the morning his life began to unravel, he woke to the sound of his father humming.
It was not a song anyone else knew.
Thomas Thatcher never sang in public. He claimed he had no voice for it. But when he thought no one was listening, when he was mending harnesses or rekindling the hearth before sunrise, he sometimes hummed low and slow, as though reminding himself that he was still alive.
William lay in bed and listened.
The sound meant safety.
Sunlight crept through the shutters in thin, golden lines. Dust drifted lazily in their path. Outside, a rooster crowed with dramatic insistence.
William sighed and rolled onto his side.
"Mum," he called softly. "The rooster's shouting again."
From the kitchen came a laugh.
"It always is," Eliza Thatcher replied. "That's his purpose in life."
William smiled and pushed himself out of bed.
The floor was cold beneath his feet. He dressed quickly, pulling on his worn shirt and trousers, then splashed water on his face from the basin. His reflection looked back at him uncertainly—a tall, narrow-faced boy with unruly brown hair and eyes that always seemed to be searching for something he could never quite name.
He did not think much of it.
He rarely thought about himself at all.
Breakfast was already laid out when he entered the kitchen.
Fresh bread steamed gently on the table. A small pot of honey sat beside a bowl of porridge. His father was seated near the window, repairing a cracked leather strap with careful, patient stitches.
Eliza moved between hearth and table, sleeves rolled, hair tied back with a strip of cloth.
"Sit," she ordered gently. "Before your food goes cold."
William obeyed.
Thomas glanced up. "Sleep well?"
"Mostly," William said. "The wind was loud."
"It's changing," Thomas replied. "Rain by tomorrow, I think."
Eliza frowned. "Already? The wheat isn't ready."
"Nature doesn't ask permission," Thomas said mildly.
William watched them talk, feeling a quiet warmth settle in his chest. They had been having this same conversation for years, and he hoped they would have it for many more.
After breakfast, they went to the fields.
The air was still cool, heavy with the scent of damp soil and growing things. Dew clung to the wheat like scattered jewels.
William walked beside his father, carrying tools over his shoulder.
Thomas stopped near a fence line and knelt to inspect a loose post.
"Come here," he said.
William hurried over.
"See this?" Thomas asked, tapping the wood. "If you don't set it straight now, it'll fall by autumn."
He showed William how to wedge it properly, how to test its balance.
William tried.
Failed.
Adjusted.
Tried again.
"There," Thomas said quietly. "Better."
Those words mattered more than any praise.
At midday, they returned home.
Eliza had prepared stew with root vegetables and herbs from her garden. They ate outside beneath the small apple tree, sharing the shade.
William lay back in the grass afterward, staring at the clouds.
"Do you ever wish you could leave?" he asked suddenly.
His parents looked at him.
Eliza studied his face. "Why?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Just… wondering."
Thomas considered. "I've seen other places," he said. "Markets. Towns. Cities. They're busy. Loud. Always wanting more."
"And?" Eliza prompted.
"And I always wanted to come back," Thomas finished.
William nodded slowly.
That afternoon, he helped his mother mend clothes.
They sat near the window, sunlight warming their backs.
"You've grown again," Eliza muttered, measuring his sleeve. "I swear you do it out of spite."
He laughed.
She smiled.
"Your father was the same," she said. "Couldn't keep him in trousers for more than a year."
"Did he complain?"
"Endlessly."
William tried to imagine his father as a boy.
He couldn't.
As evening fell, neighbors passed by, exchanging greetings.
Old Mrs. Harper brought apples.
The blacksmith stopped to borrow salt.
Father Collins waved from the road.
The village felt alive, connected, whole.
William loved it.
That night, they gathered by the hearth.
Thomas read from an old, worn book.
Eliza stitched.
William leaned against her shoulder, half-asleep.
Outside, the wind rose.
Far away, unseen, smoke drifted across darkened hills.
Later, lying in bed, William stared at the ceiling.
He thought of nothing in particular.
Of tomorrow's work.
Of next season's harvest.
Of ordinary things.
He did not know that this was the last night he would ever sleep in this room.
That this was the last time he would hear his father's quiet humming.
That this was the last time his mother would tuck the blanket around his shoulders.
The world was still whole.
For a few more hours.