Morning sunlight spilled across the cottage walls, painting them in gold. Seraphine darted barefoot across the floor, chasing the smell of fresh bread. Her mother stood at the table, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour.
"Come here, little dove," her mother said, handing her a small lump of dough. "Try shaping it yourself."
Seraphine pressed her fingers into the dough, clumsy but determined. The roll came out uneven, lopsided. She frowned. Her mother chuckled. "It doesn't have to be perfect. Bread tastes good no matter how it looks."
Her father came in from outside, carrying the scent of pine and the cool morning air. He set down the wood he'd been chopping and crouched beside her. "Let's see what you've made," he said.
Seraphine held up her misshapen roll. "It's… not very good."
He studied it with mock seriousness, then nodded. "Looks like a fine loaf to me. Better than my first try." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wooden bird, its wings spread as if ready to fly. "Made this for you."
Her eyes lit up. "It's beautiful!"
"Careful with the wings," he said, smiling. "They're delicate."
The day passed in laughter. Seraphine chased butterflies in the meadow, her daisy crown slipping sideways as she ran. She stopped to gather flowers, weaving them into clumsy little garlands that she draped over her parents' shoulders.
Her mother laughed. "You've made us royalty." Her father adjusted the crooked crown. "Then I suppose I'm the king of daisies."
Seraphine giggled, twirling in the grass.
At night, the cottage glowed with firelight. Her mother hummed while her father told stories — not grand tales of heroes, but simple ones about villagers who stood together when times grew hard. Seraphine curled between them, eyelids heavy, her wooden bird clutched in her hands.
The forest whispered beyond the walls, but she didn't hear it. Not yet. For now, her world was bread, laughter, and love.