LunaElara: Guardian of Spindale

CHAPTER 002

In Spindale the mornings are always so peaceful, a quiet so calm and comforting it wraps itself around me. It is quiet here, and there is a promise that the rest of the world won’t intrude upon my little sanctuary. This peace I’ve become reliant on, almost as much as I’ve become reliant on the quiet rhythm of my daily life with the girls. I’ve made a life here, amongst the towering trees, a life that has never known the pain of my past.

A bright orange is painting the sky pink; the sun is just rising. I’m already up, standing at the small kitchen window watching the world wake up. Their small bodies are still curled up together in the room the girls share while they are asleep. Sophia, Lila, and Ember are breathing softly, their steady rhythm now the soundtrack of my life. The sound comforts me; it tells me I’m doing something right.

It’s a simple house, but it’s ours. I didn’t need anything fancy, just a place to live, a place where my daughters wouldn’t grow up with the shadows of betrayal looming over their lives.

A cosy structure, it almost seems part of the forest, not apart from it. The smell of pine clings to the air and never leaves; it’s a reminder to me of the free, untethered world that exists beyond—of the wild outside.

I pull myself away from the window and make us breakfast. Long before I ever moved here, I’ve always been an early riser. The morning is quiet, the world is still asleep, and there’s something about that time of day that gives me time to think before the world wakes up.

First it is the sound of Sophia’s feet light on the wooden floor, the first to come into the kitchen. She still half asleep yawns, and her wild curls tumble down around her shoulders. She’s always been the one who leads, who pushes the others to do what she does, to go places, and to ask questions. In so many ways she reminds me most of myself when I was her age, curious, fearless, with dreams.

Her voice is soft, still thick with sleep. “Morning, Mama”

I smile. putting a bowl of oatmeal down in front of her, “Morning, sweet girl.” When she wakes up, she’s always hungry, her heart as big as her appetite. “Did you sleep well?”...

She nods and shuffles over to the table. “Lila’s still asleep. Ember, too.”

“Good,” I say, nodding. I just love watching her dig into her food; she never gets tired. She’s always been a hungry life, a thirsty adventure. I hope she doesn’t ever lose that spark.

Soon the others are up, coming into the kitchen at their own pace. Sophia is not as quiet as Lila; she is more reserved. There is something gentle about her, and soft about her eyes, making her seem older than her years. She likes to sit with me and talk in quiet tones about the things that fill her mind: stories, dreams, and sometimes things I cannot fully understand. It’s the one time I’m not the one who asks the hard questions, the ones that make me stop and think before I reply.

Ember is the last one to wake, and she does so as always, slipping into the kitchen, making no noise, eyes already open, alert. Ember is the one who watches, watching from the side before, taking everything in around her that seems to always observe like her sisters, but with a quiet intensity. She doesn’t say much, but when she does, it means something. I can tell the depth in her eyes, the quiet strength she's had since she was a baby. I think Ember knows more about the world than she lets on sometimes.

We sit together at the small table in the kitchen, a place that has become the heart of our home, once they’re all gathered. After our simple breakfast, I feel the usual overwhelming feeling of gratitude for them. Every single day that I keep going, they are my anchor.

Sophia says with all her excitement, 'I want to go to the woods today.' “Can we go? We haven’t been in so long.”

“Are you sure you want to go today?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “It’s going to rain soon; the weather looks like it.”

“Please, Mama!” Her voice is urgent; Lila chimes in. “We’ll be careful. We won’t go too far.”

I look out the window at the dark clouds forming on the horizon. I can tell they’re dying for an adventure, but the forest is dangerous if we’re not careful, and the weather is turning. After all these years of living here, I can’t help but worry that something will happen to them. It’s beautiful and wild, but it’s also unpredictable.

I sigh and say, 'We'll go.'“ We’ll be near the cabin, though. ”Just for a little while.”

The day starts to take shape, and the girls cheer. After breakfast we gather our things and put on coats and boots and are outside in the cool morning air. Now the wind is picking up, the trees are beginning to be pushed in rhythmic waves, and the air smells like rain, thick with earth and pine. The girls run, laughing at each other, ahead, and I keep close watch.

The woods no longer feel the same as they did all those years ago as we walk deeper into them. The trunks of the trees are thicker now, the trees are taller, and the underbrush denser. Almost it seems the forest has grown with us, protecting us, hiding us from the outside world. So many hours I’ve walked these paths, the only sounds are the rustle of leaves or the faraway call of a bird. Today, there’s something else in the air. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I slow down and watch the girls as they explore. When we’re out here, I’m always just a little on edge. I’ve tried to bury the memories of Caleb’s betrayal, and though I’ve tried, sometimes they come to the surface in the quiet moments. I never wanted my children to grow up with the shadows of the past, but the past is part of me. It’s part of who I am now; it’s woven into the fabric of that. And I can’t change that.

A blur of motion, Sophia runs ahead. I look at her for a moment before I turn to Lila, who stands still and looks all around the forest floor. She’s a small-things girl—she’s always been the one to notice the patterns in the leaves, the way the wind turns, the way the air shifts.

Lila says, just a whisper under her voice, “Mama.” “Do you hear that?”

My heart skips a beat, and I pause. I look around, trying to listen, but all I can hear is the wind and the faraway rustling of the trees.

I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, “I don’t hear anything, sweetie.”

Lila’s eyes are wide, and there’s something in there I can’t put my finger on. Her body is tense; she’s staring into the woods.

Her voice trembling, she says, “I think something’s watching us”.

My heart drops. I swallow the panic down, pushing it back down inside me. I attempt to smile, but it’s forced, hollow. I shake my voice slightly: “It’s just the wind.” “Let’s stay close. We’ll go back to the cabin.”

But Lila doesn’t move. She still looks at the trees, as if she’s expecting something.

For a second, I wonder if I have really escaped the past, or am I just running from it, out of sight, waiting for the perfect moment to come back?