The next morning arrived shrouded in mist and fine rain, a hush that soaked into the bones of the village. Birds sang low and slow, as if cautious not to break the stillness. Smoke curled from chimneys, heavier than usual, clinging to the eaves and tangling in the pines.
Ash stepped out of Elira's cottage into the quiet, the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke grounding him. His clothes, borrowed and a little too loose, clung to his skin in the damp. A woolen shawl lay draped over one shoulder, offered wordlessly by Elira that morning as he passed her by the hearth.
"Chop wood before you go wandering," she'd said. "The stove won't feed itself."
He hadn't argued. Chores were easy currency here, proof of presence without needing explanations.
