Spring came late to Grayridge.
But it came.
Snow peeled back from the fields like a tired veil. Wild barley pushed through the frostbitten soil. Children chased crows off rooftops while elders repaired fishing nets in the sun.
In a cottage rebuilt from blackened stone and driftwood, Vera stirred porridge over a wood-fire stove.
The walls smelled like lavender. The floors creaked like old songs.
She opened the shutters.
Sunlight poured in.
---
A knock came at the door.
Reed poked his head in, hair windblown and mouth full of apples. “You forgot the grain count."
“I didn't forget," Vera said, not looking up. “You misplaced the tally sheet again."
He grinned sheepishly and handed her a smudged scrap.
“You're lucky I like liars," she muttered, crossing out a number and rewriting it
