Chapter 3 - A House That Was Not Home
1368 Words
The Drake house stood near the outer edge of Red Hollow territory, where the dense forest slowly crept closer to the pack’s lands. Tall pine trees surrounded the narrow dirt road that led to the house, their branches whispering softly whenever the wind passed through them.
The house itself was small.
Not poor.
But small.
The wooden walls had been repaired so many times that different shades of timber could be seen where boards had been replaced over the years. The roof creaked when the wind grew strong, and the old windows rattled slightly in their frames.
Inside, the kitchen was warm.
A single yellow lamp hung above the wooden table, casting a soft circle of light across the room. The smell of tea filled the air.
Ennis Drake sat at the table with a proud smile on her face, both hands wrapped around a steaming mug.
Across from her sat John Drake.
Florence’s father leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely were. He looked satisfied — deeply satisfied — like a man who had just received confirmation that his family name would carry weight in the pack.
They were talking loudly.
Excitedly.
They were celebrating.
Marcus Drake — their eldest son — had been promoted that morning during pack training.
He had been chosen to join the elite warriors who guarded the Alpha and patrolled the borders of Red Hollow territory.
For most wolves, that position was a dream.
For John and Ennis Drake, it was proof that their family had done something right.
“Did you see the Alpha’s face?” Ennis said excitedly, leaning forward. “He looked directly at Marcus when he announced the promotion.”
John gave a short approving grunt.
“He should have.”
Ennis smiled wider.
“Marcus earned it.”
John nodded slowly.
“That boy has always had discipline.”
Ennis took a sip of tea and sighed happily.
“This is only the beginning.”
She lowered her voice slightly, as if speaking of something sacred.
“If he continues like this… he could become captain of the guard one day.”
John leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
“Or Beta.”
The word lingered in the air like a dream too large to speak aloud.
Ennis laughed softly.
“Maybe.”
John nodded once more, clearly enjoying the thought.
“Yes… maybe.”
At that exact moment the front door opened quietly.
Florence stepped inside.
She paused immediately.
Her parents’ voices carried easily from the kitchen.
Marcus again.
Always Marcus.
Florence quietly closed the door behind her.
Her body ached.
Her arms were still sore from carrying books all evening, and the cut on her cheek had begun to sting again now that the air outside had cooled.
She slipped off her shoes near the entrance and quietly stepped toward the hallway.
If she moved carefully enough…
If she stayed quiet enough…
Maybe they would not notice her.
“Florence.”
Her mother’s voice stopped her immediately.
Florence froze.
Slowly, she turned toward the kitchen doorway.
Ennis Drake was standing there now, her expression slightly annoyed.
“Why isn’t dinner ready?”
Florence hesitated.
“The library—”
She stopped.
The memory of torn pages and scattered books flashed through her mind.
“The library was destroyed today,” she said quietly. “Some students—”
John snorted loudly from the kitchen table.
“Students.”
He waved one dismissive hand.
“There’s nothing more important than the pack.”
Florence lowered her eyes.
John leaned forward slightly.
“Your brother will be home soon.”
His voice was firm.
“And there’s no dinner.”
Florence said nothing.
She simply nodded once.
“Yes, Father.”
She walked into the living room.
The room was modest — a worn sofa, two wooden chairs, and a small table near the wall. A faded rug covered part of the floor.
Florence placed her bag gently on the small stool near the wall.
Inside the bag were the torn pages she had gathered from the library floor.
She didn’t look at them.
She didn’t have the strength.
Florence turned and walked into the kitchen.
She tied the old apron around her waist and moved toward the counter.
Her parents resumed their conversation almost instantly.
Florence began preparing dinner.
The knife moved slowly across the cutting board.
Carrots.
Onions.
Potatoes.
The steady rhythm helped her breathe again.
Behind her, the conversation continued.
“He was always stronger than the other boys,” John said.
Ennis nodded proudly.
“Yes. Even as a child.”
Florence sliced another carrot.
“I remember when he shifted for the first time,” Ennis said with a smile. “Such a beautiful wolf.”
John chuckled.
“Strong shoulders. Powerful legs.”
Florence kept her head down.
The knife moved steadily.
“He has the spirit of a true warrior,” John continued.
Ennis sighed happily.
“Our son will go far.”
Florence’s hands trembled.
The knife paused.
“He will make this family proud.”
Florence blinked.
A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.
It fell silently onto the cutting board.
Then another.
And another.
She made no sound.
The tears dropped onto the vegetables she was cutting.
Florence wiped them away quickly with the back of her sleeve and continued chopping.
She had learned long ago that crying only made things worse.
Silence was safer.
Always silence.
Florence placed the chopped vegetables into a pot and moved toward the sink.
She turned the faucet.
Nothing happened.
She tried again.
Still nothing.
The water had stopped working again.
Of course.
The faucet had been broken for two weeks.
Her father had promised to fix it.
He never had.
Florence stood there for a moment, staring at the silent faucet.
Then she quietly picked up two metal buckets and walked toward the back door.
The evening air was cool when she stepped outside.
The forest surrounding the house was already darkening as the sun dipped behind the hills.
The well stood a short distance away.
Florence lowered the bucket slowly into the water.
The rope burned against her palms as she pulled it back up.
The bucket was heavy.
She filled both.
By the time she lifted the second bucket, her arms were already shaking.
The walk back to the house felt longer than usual.
The water sloshed against the sides of the buckets with each step.
Her arms ached.
Her shoulders burned.
But Florence kept walking.
Inside the house, her parents were still talking.
Marcus.
Always Marcus.
Florence poured the water into the pot and returned to cooking.
The soup began to simmer.
She seasoned the meat.
Prepared vegetables for the table.
Set out plates.
Set out cups.
The kitchen slowly filled with the warm smell of food.
It smelled like comfort.
Like family.
Like home.
But Florence felt none of those things.
When everything was finished, she removed the apron and folded it neatly.
She hung it back on the wall.
Neither of her parents noticed.
They were still discussing Marcus’s future.
Florence quietly walked into the living room.
Her bag still rested on the stool.
She picked it up.
Then she moved down the narrow hallway toward the smallest room in the house.
Her room.
If it could even be called that.
The space had once been used as storage.
Barely large enough for a bed.
A narrow mattress rested against the wall.
A small wooden shelf held the few books she owned.
Florence placed her bag on the floor beside the bed.
She sat down slowly.
From the kitchen she could still hear her parents’ voices.
Laughter.
Excitement.
Pride.
None of it was meant for her.
Florence lay back on the narrow mattress.
The ceiling above her was low and cracked.
She folded her hands over her stomach and closed her eyes.
Another day was ending.
Just like every day before it.
Tomorrow would come.
And nothing would change.
Florence Drake lay quietly in the small dark room.
Waiting for sleep.
Waiting for silence.
Waiting for the world to forget her again.
- Writer
