When She Walked With Crows

Tea, Firewood, and Quiet Things

Chapter Seven — Tea, Firewood, and Quiet Things

Anwen’s house smelled faintly of lavender and old wood — a soft, tired scent that made Silas’s chest ache for reasons he couldn’t name. She eased herself into a chair near the small table, one hand still pressed lightly to her chest.

“I’m okay,” she murmured, though her voice was thin.

Silas didn’t believe her for a second.

“Sit,” he said gently. “I’ll get you something warm.”

Anwen blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t argue. Ink hopped onto the back of her chair, feathers sleek and watchful, as if guarding her.

Silas moved through the small kitchen, opening cabinets until he found a tin of tea leaves. The kettle was old, dented, but clean. He filled it with water and set it on the stove, listening to the soft tick of the flame catching.

When he turned, he noticed the firewood box by the hearth.

It was nearly empty.

Just a few thin sticks and one half‑burned log.

Silas frowned. “Anwen… do you have more wood somewhere?”

She hesitated. “A little. Outside.”

“A little,” he repeated, glancing at the cold hearth. “You won’t make it through the night with that.”

Her shoulders lifted in a small, embarrassed shrug. “I manage.”

Silas didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The kettle began to hum, and he poured the hot water over the tea leaves, letting the steam curl into the air. He set the cup in front of her.

“Drink,” he said softly.

She wrapped her hands around the mug, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth seeped into her fingers. “Thank you.”

Silas nodded once, then turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked, alarm flickering in her voice.

“Outside,” he said. “You need firewood.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Anwen stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she nodded.

Silas stepped outside. The air was crisp, the forest humming quietly in the distance. He found the small woodpile behind her house — barely a stack at all, just a few logs and some brittle branches.

He sighed. “Yeah. That’s not happening.”

He grabbed the axe leaning against the wall. The handle was worn smooth, the blade sharp enough. He carried it to the edge of the trees, found a fallen trunk thick enough to last her days, and set to work.

The rhythm steadied him.

Lift. Swing. c***k. Breathe.

The forest watched him — he could feel it — but it didn’t intrude. Even Ink stayed inside, as if giving him space.

By the time he finished, he had enough wood for:

a hot bath, a warm night, a warm morning ,and then some

He stacked it neatly by the door, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Inside, the house smelled different — richer, warmer. Anwen stood at the stove, stirring something in a small pot. The scent of herbs and broth drifted through the air.

She looked up when he entered. “I made soup. There’s enough for both of us.”

Silas blinked. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I wanted to.”

Their eyes met.

Something quiet passed between them — not a spark, but a soft, steady glow.

Silas cleared his throat. “I cut enough wood for tonight. And tomorrow morning.”

Anwen’s eyes widened. “All of that? Silas, you didn’t need to—”

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “But you shouldn’t have to do everything alone.”

Her breath hitched — just a little — and she looked away, blinking quickly.

Ink hopped onto the table, tapping Silas’s wrist with his beak as if approving.

Silas snorted. “Yeah, yeah. I’m amazing.”

Anwen laughed — a small, startled sound — and Silas felt something warm bloom in his chest.

They sat together at the table, sharing soup in the quiet glow of the lantern. Outside, the forest rustled softly, as if settling in for the night.

And somewhere deep in the hollow they’d left behind, the remembering stone hummed again — faint, patient, waiting.