Whisper to the Moon

Chapter Five: The Greening

Spring crept slowly to the borderlands.

It wasn't the spring I remembered from my village—no sudden thaw, no vibrant green shoots bursting through the earth overnight. Here, spring arrived in increments, inch by painstaking inch. The snow softened at the edges, the biting wind lost its sharpest teeth, and the small patch of ground behind my shed finally began to yield something in return.

Tiny green shoots pushed through the dark, thawing soil. They were thin at first, barely visible, like delicate threads stitching the ground back to life.

Mick was the first to spot them. He had been squatting by the plot every morning, his scrawny dog curled patiently at his feet, watching the dirt as if it owed him an answer. That morning, he let out a triumphant shout.

"Elin! Elin, come look!"

I dropped the axe I'd been sharpening and walked over. He was pointing at the ground, his finger trembling with excitement. Nestled between two small stones, a cluster of wild onion shoots had broken through. Their green was so vivid it almost hurt the eyes against the stark gray of the lingering snow.

I crouched beside him and gently touched the tip of one shoot with my finger. Soft. Alive.

"They're here," I whispered.

Mick looked up at me, his face split by a grin so wide I could see the gap where a baby tooth had once been. "I told you," he crowed. "I told you they'd sprout."

I didn't correct him. He had said "tomorrow" when I had only dared to think "maybe." Instead, I simply nodded, allowing him his small victory.

By noon, word had spread throughout the clearing. Sera came by to see, Coren hobbling beside her on his still-bandaged leg. He crouched down, careful not to put weight on it, and stared at the shoots as if they were made of pure gold.

"Are they going to grow bigger?" he asked, his voice full of wonder.

"Yes," I replied. "If we take care of them."

"How do you take care of them?"

I looked at his earnest face, his pale amber eyes fixed on mine. "Water them. Pull out anything that crowds them. And wait."

He nodded slowly, filing the information away as if it were the most profound wisdom he had ever received.

That afternoon, Sera returned with a small clay pot. She set it on the step of my shed. Inside was a dark, earthy paste—something ground and mixed with care.

"For your hands," she said, her voice soft. "The cold cracks them. This will help."

I looked down at my palms. The cuts had scabbed over, but the skin around them was still red and raw. Winter had left its indelible marks on me, inch by agonizing inch.

I looked up at her. "Thank you."

She shrugged, a small, dismissive gesture, but her eyes were warm with genuine concern. "Coren's leg is healing," she said. "That's because of you. A little salve is nothing."

She left before I could say anything more. I stood there, holding the clay pot, its small weight a tangible presence in my hands, and felt something I hadn't felt since I first walked into this place—a thread. Thin as the green shoots, but undeniably there.

That evening, I sat on the step of my shed, rubbing Sera's salve into my hands. The paste smelled of animal fat and some unidentifiable herbal scent. It was thick and warm, sinking into my skin like a silent promise.

I looked across the clearing. The fire burned brightly, and the pack had gathered around it. Laughter drifted across the cold air, mingling with the rich scent of roasted meat. Mick was there, his scrawny dog nestled in his lap. Sera was handing him something. Thor was sharpening a knife on a whetstone, his face illuminated by the dancing flames.

They looked like a family.

I dropped my eyes to my hands. The salve had soaked in, leaving the skin soft and darker where it had been cracked and chapped.

I thought of the dried meat Kael had given me once. Warm, wrapped in a leaf. I had kept it in the straw for days, unwilling to eat it. Finally, I had taken it back to his doorstep. He never picked it up.

The leaf had dried and curled. The meat had hardened like stone.

I picked it up again that afternoon, sitting in the straw. Cold, stiff. Sera's salve was on my hands—warm. Thor's fish was in my belly—hot. Mick's hide was under my knees—soft.

Kael's meat lay beside my sketch. Cold. Hard.

The whole pack now filled my left shelf of memories. He still owned the right one. Empty.

I pressed the sketch to my chest and stared at the moon through the cracks in the shed wall. Spring was coming. The onions had sprouted. The pack was slowly, surely, filling me up.

Kael had looked at me once, walking past.

One look. It didn't stay.