The cottage was warm with stew and glowing sunrise.
A soft orange glow from the window lit Wrenlow’s face as she dropped herbs into a bubbling pot.
Dawn sat cross-legged by the counter, peeling root vegetables with her tiny hands, tongue sticking out with focus.
“Not too thick,” Wrenlow reminded, slicing a turnip. “Thinner cuts cook faster.”
“I know,” Dawn huffed, proud. “Mama used to say the same.”
Wrenlow paused. A shadow passed through her eyes. “Yes... she did.”
For a while, all they heard was the gentle bubbling of stew, the rustle of leaves outside the window, and the crackle of firewood.
Then—
Thud.
A sound from outside.
Wrenlow stiffened.
Dawn didn’t notice.
“Granny, should I go pick mushrooms before dark?”
“No.”
The word left Wrenlow’s mouth like a blade. She stood,
