The mill breathed like a living thing.
Dust rose with every strike of the saw, floating through the shafts of light that fell from narrow windows. The air smelled of sap and damp wood, heavy and familiar. It was the kind of place where hours disappeared into labor, where men learned to keep their thoughts close and their words closer.
Gabriel worked without pause.
Lift. Align. Cut. Stack.
The rhythm steadied his hands, even as his mind resisted the quiet. Around him, the low murmur of voices carried—unfinished sentences, half-swallowed fears.
"Gabriel."
He didn't turn.
Fredric leaned against one of the posts, arms folded loosely, eyes sharp with curiosity that bordered on hunger.
"You hear what people are saying?" Fredric asked.
Gabriel set another plank into place. "People always speak."
"They say the storm wasn't just wind," Fredric continued. "Say it carried something with it. Something that shouldn't have been sleeping."
The saw bit deeper than necessary.
Nicolas glanced up from his station, tension already pulling his brow tight.
"She was hurt," Gabriel said evenly. "That's all."
Fredric smiled. "Hurt things usually come from somewhere."
Gabriel straightened slowly. "And storms knock down trees. Nothing more."
Fredric tilted his head. "Funny, then, how the forest chose your house to leave its gift."
The word gift hung unpleasantly in the air.
"Careful," Nicolas warned.
Fredric shrugged. "Just talking. Like your wife used to—before she vanished into those institutions." His eyes flicked to Gabriel. "Or whatever name people give them now."
The mill disappeared.
Gabriel saw stone walls, pale with candlelight. Heard the rustle of cloth. Felt fingers tightening weakly around his.
"Promise me," her voice whispered, strained, trembling.
"If they come… don't let—"
The words fractured, dissolving into breath and fear. He remembered the way she tried to smile, as if calm might protect him. As if love alone could keep the world from reaching through cracks it had no right to know existed.
The impact was sudden.
Fredric's back struck the post hard.
"Say her name again," Gabriel said quietly, his hand twisted in Fredric's collar, "and I won't remember where we're standing."
Nicolas was between them in an instant.
"That's enough," he said sharply, gripping Gabriel's arm. "Both of you."
Fredric laughed under his breath. "Still haunted."
Nicolas turned on him. "You don't speak of the dead like that. Get back to work."
Fredric adjusted his clothes, smirking. "All right. All right. Touchy subject."
He walked away.
Gabriel stood still, breath heavy.
"Gabriel," Nicolas said more gently. "You're here. You're working."
Gabriel nodded once. "I know."
Footsteps echoed from the entrance.
Nicolas's wife, Sofi, stepped inside, basket tucked beneath her arm. Her presence carried warmth and order, the kind that didn't demand attention but commanded it all the same.
"Good afternoon," she said politely, eyes passing over the room. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
Nicolas smiled faintly. "You're right on time."
She handed him the basket, then turned to Gabriel. "I heard about the storm's damage near your land. I hope the house is holding."
"It is," Gabriel replied.
Sofi hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the basket's edge. "And… the girl?"
The question rippled outward.
Men slowed their work. Voices dropped.
"Still asleep," Gabriel said.
Whispers bloomed despite themselves.
At dusk, the road home stretched long and quiet.
Gabriel walked beneath a sky stained with fading gold, the mill's noise replaced by wind and distant crows. His thoughts drifted unwillingly—to unmoving limbs beneath clean cloth, to fingers that had moved.
At the edge of the fields, Aster walked with his friends, kicking stones to keep pace.
"You really found her in the forest?" one boy asked.
Aster shrugged. "Father did."
"My mother says that's bad luck," another added. "Says storms leave things behind for a reason."
Aster laughed, too quick. "Parents always say things like that."
"Still," the boy pressed, "she hasn't woken, has she?"
Aster's smile faded. "She's just… someone who got hurt."
"You care too much," another teased. "It's not like she's staying."
Aster looked away. "She won't."
At home, Lily knelt beside the bed.
The girl lay pale and still, breath shallow but steady. Lily reached to smooth the cloth—then froze.
The girl's fingers twitched.
Just once.
Then again.
Lily leaned closer, heart pounding.
The girl's lips parted.
A sound slipped free—soft, broken, barely a word.
"…no…"
Nothing more.
The fingers stilled.
Lily's breath shook.
"Father," she whispered.
The girl did not wake.
But the room no longer felt empty.