The boy woke to the soft sounds of the inn coming alive—the clatter of pots, the creak of boots across the wooden floor above him, the muffled hum of voices as early travelers came down for breakfast. A shaft of light cut through the stable's slats, painting golden stripes across the hay.
His body ached from sleep on hard ground, but the ache was familiar, almost comforting. He sat up slowly, brushing straw from his hair. The smell of warm bread drifted in from the kitchen, making his stomach cramp with hunger.
The older woman from the night before appeared in the doorway, carrying a small tray. "Awake, are you? Thought you might be." She set the tray down—a bowl of porridge, a mug of watered-down milk. "Eat, lad. You've got the look of someone who hasn't had a proper meal in weeks."
He stared at her, unsure why kindness still existed in the world. His hands shook as he took the bowl. "Thank you," he whispered.
She smiled faintly. "What's your name, dear?"
He hesitated. "Eryn."
"Well, Eryn, you're welcome to stay the day. I can't keep you longer, but you can rest your feet before you move on."
He nodded, too busy eating to answer. The porridge was thin but warm, the milk slightly sour but still better than water. He ate every scrap, licking the spoon clean.
After the woman left, Eryn sat alone in the straw, staring at the shaft of sunlight. Memories drifted in unbidden—Leya's giggle when he told her bedtime stories, his father's calloused hand ruffling his hair, his mother's voice humming a lullaby. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms until it hurt.
He could still see that man. The one who did nothing.The one who slept while his family screamed.
Eryn whispered to the empty stable, "I'll find you."A horse snorted softly, as if in answer.