Eleanor POV
I was six again.
The snow was thick, soft like powdered sugar, blanketing the sloped land behind our family’s modest cottage nestled at the forest’s edge. The kind of snow that muffled all sound, making the world feel like a lullaby in slow motion. My dark hair, long and sleek, had just been combed neatly into a ponytail by Mother, her fingers quick, efficient, and gentle. The way she used to hum as she worked some old folk song from her girlhood made me feel safe, even when the wind rattled the windows.
Her voice rang out now in my memory, warm and clipped with that ever-familiar worry. It always sat just under the surface with her. Like a glass that was too full, always on the verge of tipping.
“Don’t wander off, Eleanor.”
“I won’t, Mama,” I had said, my voice chirpy, ho
