The smell of stew filled the small cottage before Elias even reached the table. Mirella stood by the hearth, stirring with one hand and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear with the other. The fire's light caught the faint sheen of worry on her face—smoothed over quickly when she noticed him watching. Lira was already seated, chin propped in her palms, swinging her legs idly. The warmth of the room pressed close, heavy and comforting, almost enough to make Elias forget how unnatural silence felt inside his head.
Aldric: A domestic tableau. Fire, family, and—ah—root vegetables. How quaint.
Henry: Quaint? It smells amazing. Look at the texture—perfect simmer!
Cain: Can both of you shut up for one dinner?
Aldric: Observation is not disruption. I am cataloguing the environment.
Henry: He's cataloguing soup, Cain.
Cain: Exactly my point.
Elias's spoon clinked against the bowl. Mirella smiled faintly, mistaking his distracted expression for thoughtfulness. "Still warm enough?" she asked, voice soft but watchful.
He nodded. "It's perfect."
The taste was mild, earthy—carrots, onions, a trace of pepper. Familiar, maybe. Or perhaps just comforting because it should have been familiar. Lira leaned toward him, eyes bright.
"Mother let me cut the potatoes," she said proudly. "Didn't even drop any this time."
Mirella's amused sigh carried more affection than reprimand. "One almost rolled into the fire."
"Almost," Lira said quickly, grinning.
Henry: Adorable. We didn't have this kind of sibling energy in our lives, did we?
Aldric: Speak for yourself. I had siblings once. They were worse.
Cain: Not now.
Aldric: Why not now? The boy's family is talking about potatoes. Hardly riveting material.
Cain: Because I'm trying to listen, Aldric. You should try it sometime.
Henry: You're just grumpy because you're hungry too.
Cain: We don't get hungry, Henry.
Henry: Says the man sighing every time we take a bite.
Cain: That's because you two won't shut up.
Elias almost choked on his next spoonful. Lira blinked. "You okay?"
He managed a faint smile. "Just… hot."
"Blow on it first," she advised sagely, mimicking the gesture with exaggerated puffed cheeks.
Mirella's laughter filled the room—a sound like old sunlight through fog. For a moment, Elias let himself breathe in the warmth, the rhythm of wooden spoons and soft chatter. His fingers traced the edge of the bowl absently, and his gaze drifted toward the shelf by the far wall. Frames. Photographs.
There they were—Mirella, younger, eyes wide and tired but happy. Garrick beside her, broad-shouldered, windburnt. Between them, a small boy clinging to his father's leg, smiling toothlessly at something behind the camera.
Elias stared too long. Mirella noticed.
"Your father wrote again," she said quietly, almost as if she'd been waiting for the moment.
That drew Lira's attention instantly. "He did?!"
Mirella nodded, drying her hands on a towel. "A short letter. He's still stationed near the border towns. The contract's longer than expected."
"Is he okay?"
"He says he's fine." Mirella hesitated. "Tired, but fine. Work's steady. Payment's slow, but it's coming."
Aldric: Mercenary work, then. Dangerous profession. Useful connections, though.
Cain: He's her husband, not a source to exploit.
Aldric: Information is information.
Henry: You'd try to analyze love if you could chart it, wouldn't you?
Aldric: Love is a variable reaction in human cognition, often detrimental to—
Cain: Aldric!
Elias's hand tightened slightly on the spoon.
Mirella's eyes flicked to him again, searching. "He mentioned you, Elias. Said he hoped you were walking again. That you were… getting stronger."
The words hit somewhere behind the ribs, softer than pain but heavier than comfort. Elias forced a nod. "I am."
Lira beamed. "He'll be so proud when he comes home!"
Mirella's smile trembled just enough for him to notice. "I hope so."
The room quieted after that. The fire popped; the clock ticked unevenly. Lira hummed under her breath, trying to fill the silence. Elias's gaze wandered back to the photographs—tracing faces, memorizing details. He wanted to remember something real, something that might ground the confusion inside him.
Henry: She misses him terribly.
Aldric: Of course she does. Absence breeds emotional fixation.
Cain: You're unbelievable.
Aldric: Honest.
Cain: Insensitive.
Henry: Loud.
Aldric: At least I contribute insight, not sentimentality.
Cain: Insight? You're dissecting soup and grief in the same breath.
Henry: It's a talent, really.
Cain: You're next.
Elias nearly smiled into his bowl. The absurdity of it—the three voices arguing over propriety while he sat between worlds—almost felt normal now.
Mirella began collecting bowls. "You should rest after this," she said, tone firm but gentle. "Don't overexert yourself."
"I'm fine," Elias murmured.
"I know," she said. "But humor me."
Lira bounced to her feet. "Can I tell Father about Elias helping me read now? He'll be impressed, right?"
"Of course," Mirella said softly. "He'll be very proud of both of you."
Cain: She's lying a little. She's scared.
Aldric: Not of him. Of loss.
Henry: Same thing, isn't it?
Cain: No. It's not.
Elias rose to help clear the table. The motion felt rehearsed—body memory from a life he couldn't recall. He reached for a stack of plates; Mirella moved to stop him, then hesitated, letting him take them.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He didn't know what to say, so he nodded.
Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters, a low hum beneath the fire's crackle. The cottage felt small but alive, each heartbeat of warmth against the cold beyond.
When he sat again, Lira had fallen halfway asleep at the table, cheek against her arm. Mirella brushed her hair aside gently, eyes soft.
"You really don't remember much, do you?" she asked quietly.
Elias met her gaze. "Some things come back. Slowly."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "That's enough. We'll build the rest together."
Aldric: She's trying to anchor you.
Henry: That's good, isn't it?
Cain: It's dangerous if she notices too much.
Aldric: She already does.
Henry: So what then? We keep pretending?
Cain: Until we can trust her with truth. If ever.
The last logs in the hearth sank into embers. Mirella gathered Lira into her arms and murmured, "Goodnight, Elias."
He watched her go—soft footsteps up the narrow stairs, door creaking shut. The cottage fell still.
For a while, he sat in the fading glow, staring at the photographs again. The image of the smiling man—Garrick—seemed to look right through him, as if measuring the distance between the son that was and the one who sat here now.
Henry: He looks kind.
Aldric: He looks perceptive. That could be a problem.
Cain: It's already one.
Henry: We'll figure it out.
Aldric: Meaning?
Cain: Meaning shut up for a moment and let him rest.
The fire hissed softly in the hearth, as if agreeing with him.