The golden haze of early evening settled over the village as smoke curled from the chimneys and crickets began their nightly song. Inside the Harrow cottage, the tension was almost as thick as the stew simmering over the hearth.
Beatrice stood with arms crossed, watching Evelyn as she neatly folded the last of the laundry. Her hands moved with quiet precision, small fingers nimble from practice. The child had slipped into a routine faster than Beatrice expected, though that didn't mean she was ready to ease her guard.
Isolde, however, had made her stance perfectly clear.
"Why does she have to sleep in my room?" Isolde had demanded earlier that day, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. "She can sleep downstairs. It's not my fault her parents died."
Beatrice had glanced at Evelyn, who said nothing, her head lowered, a shadow of sorrow veiling her face. The girl made no argument, no protest.
So that night, Evelyn laid out a rough blanket near the hearth while Isolde curled up comfortably in her own bed above. The floor was cold, but Evelyn didn't complain. She never did. Her silence was not one of resentment, but of quiet endurance.
---
The next morning was brisk, the scent of dew-soaked earth lingering in the air. Aaron Blackthorn had just finished chopping kindling when he saw her.
She was crouched near the garden outside the Harrow cottage, inspecting the wilted herbs with practiced care. Her long black hair fell like a curtain around her small frame. There was something about the way she moved—gentle, careful, as if the world was something fragile she didn't want to disturb.
Aaron wiped his brow and hesitated before approaching. He wasn't exactly shy, but he wasn't overly talkative either, preferring the stillness of the woods or the company of Aldric's stories. But curiosity got the better of him.
"Hi," he said simply.
Startled, Evelyn looked up. Her black eyes met his green ones, wide and uncertain. She didn't respond right away, clutching the handful of herbs she'd just plucked.
Aaron shifted his stance. "I'm Aaron. I live next door."
A small nod. "Evelyn," she said softly. Her voice was barely louder than the rustle of leaves, but it held a quiet steadiness.
They stood in silence for a moment before Aaron gestured to the plants. "You know what you're doing? With those?"
A flicker of interest lit in her eyes. "Some of them. My mother... she liked gardening. She taught me."
Aaron smiled faintly. "My guardian says I'm hopeless with plants. Everything I try to grow dies."
That earned a small, almost shy smile from Evelyn.
"Maybe... I could help?" she offered, then ducked her head quickly, as if regretting the boldness of her own words.
"I'd like that," Aaron said.
That afternoon, they knelt in the dirt together, Evelyn showing Aaron how to loosen the soil just right, how to tell the difference between weeds and sprouts. She spoke in short, soft bursts, her words cautious at first, then gradually growing steadier as she sensed his quiet acceptance.
For the first time since arriving at her aunt's, Evelyn didn't feel like a stranger.
And Aaron, watching her dark eyes light up while she explained the roots of a mint plant, decided she wasn't as quiet as everyone thought. You just had to be someone she trusted.
---
The next few days passed with a subtle shift. Evelyn and Aaron began meeting regularly—sometimes in the garden, sometimes by the edge of the woods. They spoke little at first, but their silences grew comfortable, filled with shared looks and mutual understanding.
One morning, as they sat near the river skipping stones, they were joined by two other children from the village. One was a red-haired boy named Tomlin, all elbows and laughter, and the other was a girl named Maren, older than Evelyn by a year and known for her cleverness.
Tomlin immediately tried to impress them by balancing on a log and pretending it was a horse. "One day I'll ride in the King's guard," he declared grandly, before slipping and falling into the water. Aaron laughed, and even Evelyn giggled—a soft, surprised sound she hadn't heard from herself in a long time.
Maren, on the other hand, observed quietly. She gave Evelyn a curious smile and asked, "Do you know how to climb trees?"
Evelyn blinked. "No."
"Good. I'll teach you," Maren said.
And just like that, the circle widened. Evelyn, once so alone, found herself part of something small but real. Aaron always remained her anchor, but with Tomlin's laughter and Maren's confident nudges, she began to bloom like the mint she'd helped him plant.
She was still quiet, still shy—but now there were voices that called her name, hands that reached out in play, and eyes that saw more than just the burden she had been treated as.
The days began to feel warmer. Even when they weren't.