The village had settled into the gentle rhythms of early autumn.
One such afternoon, as the sun began its descent, casting elongated shadows across the village, a stranger approached the modest home of Beatrice Harrow.
The man at her doorstep was tall and lean, his face etched with lines that spoke of hard labor and harder times.
Beatrice opened the door, her brow furrowing as she took in the pair. "Yes?" she prompted, her tone brisk.
The man cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Miss Harrow, my name is Thomas Reed. I'm from Briar Glen, the village yonder."
Beatrice's eyes narrowed. "I know it."
Thomas nodded, glancing down at the girl. "This here is Evelyn Winterrose, your niece. Her parents... there was an accident. A carriage overturned on the old bridge. They didn't survive."
A flicker of something—shock, perhaps grief—passed over Beatrice's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "I see," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "And what is it you expect of me?"
Thomas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "The village elders thought it best she come to you. You're her closest kin."
Beatrice's lips pressed into a thin line. "Another mouth to feed is no small burden, Mr. Reed. Times are hard."
"I understand, truly," Thomas replied, his tone earnest. "But Evelyn is a good girl. Quiet. She won't be any trouble."
Beatrice crossed her arms over her chest. "Good intentions don't fill bellies, Mr. Reed. I've my own daughter to think of."
Thomas took a deep breath, glancing around as if seeking assistance from the very trees. "Perhaps... perhaps there's something we can arrange. The village could send provisions. A monthly stipend, to help with expenses."
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Charity? I don't take handouts."
"Not charity," Thomas corrected quickly. "Compensation. For your kindness."
Beatrice studied the man before her, then shifted her gaze to the child. Evelyn stood silently, her eyes fixed on the ground, shoulders hunched as if bracing for rejection.
After a prolonged silence, Beatrice spoke. "She'll have to earn her keep. I won't have idleness under my roof."
Thomas nodded eagerly. "Of course. She can help with chores. She's young, but she's willing."
Beatrice exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound of resignation. "Very well. Leave her things, and be on your way."
Thomas placed a gentle hand on Evelyn's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be alright here, Evie. Mind your aunt, and do as you're told."
Evelyn nodded mutely, not trusting her voice to remain steady.
Without further ado, Thomas tipped his hat to Beatrice and retreated down the path, leaving Evelyn standing alone on the threshold.
"Well, come on then," Beatrice said gruffly, stepping aside to allow the girl entry.
Evelyn stepped into the cottage, the scent of herbs and aged wood enveloping her. The interior was modest but tidy, with a small hearth crackling softly in the corner.
A young girl, a few years younger than Evelyn, peered out from behind a curtain. Her golden curls framed a cherubic face, eyes wide with curiosity and something else—apprehension, perhaps.
"This is Isolde, my daughter," Beatrice said, noting Evelyn's gaze. "You'll be sharing the room with her."
Isolde's nose wrinkled slightly, but she said nothing.
The golden haze of early evening settled over the village as smoke curled from the chimneys and crickets began their nightly song. Inside the Harrow cottage, the tension was almost as thick as the stew simmering over the hearth.
Beatrice stood with arms crossed, watching Evelyn as she neatly folded the last of the laundry. Her hands moved with quiet precision, small fingers nimble from practice. The child had slipped into a routine faster than Beatrice expected, though that didn't mean she was ready to ease her guard.
Isolde, however, had made her stance perfectly clear.
"Why does she have to sleep in my room?" Isolde had demanded earlier that day, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. "She can sleep downstairs. It's not my fault her parents died."
Beatrice had glanced at Evelyn, who said nothing, her head lowered, a shadow of sorrow veiling her face. The girl made no argument, no protest.
So that night, Evelyn laid out a rough blanket near the hearth while Isolde curled up comfortably in her own bed above. The floor was cold, but Evelyn didn't complain. She never did. Her silence was not one of resentment, but of quiet endurance.
---
The next morning was brisk, the scent of dew-soaked earth lingering in the air. Aaron Blackthorn had just finished chopping kindling when he saw her.
She was crouched near the garden outside the Harrow cottage, inspecting the wilted herbs with practiced care. Her long black hair fell like a curtain around her small frame. There was something about the way she moved—gentle, careful, as if the world was something fragile she didn't want to disturb.
Aaron wiped his brow and hesitated before approaching. He wasn't exactly shy, but he wasn't overly talkative either, preferring the stillness of the woods or the company of Aldric's stories. But curiosity got the better of him.
"Hi," he said simply.
Startled, Evelyn looked up. Her black eyes met his green ones, wide and uncertain. She didn't respond right away, clutching the handful of herbs she'd just plucked.
Aaron shifted his stance. "I'm Aaron. I live next door."
A small nod. "Evelyn," she said softly. Her voice was barely louder than the rustle of leaves, but it held a quiet steadiness.
They stood in silence for a moment before Aaron gestured to the plants. "You know what you're doing? With those?"
A flicker of interest lit in her eyes. "Some of them. My mother... she liked gardening. She taught me."
Aaron smiled faintly. "My guardian says I'm hopeless with plants. Everything I try to grow dies."
That earned a small, almost shy smile from Evelyn.
"Maybe... I could help?" she offered, then ducked her head quickly, as if regretting the boldness of her own words.
"I'd like that," Aaron said.
That afternoon, they knelt in the dirt together, Evelyn showing Aaron how to loosen the soil just right, how to tell the difference between weeds and sprouts. She spoke in short, soft bursts, her words cautious at first, then gradually growing steadier as she sensed his quiet acceptance.
For the first time since arriving at her aunt's, Evelyn didn't feel like a stranger.
And Aaron, watching her dark eyes light up while she explained the roots of a mint plant, decided she wasn't as quiet as everyone thought. You just had to be someone she trusted.