Prologue

Not because I loved it , but because leaving always felt like something other people did--people with money, choices, or time to think about what came next. I didn't have any of that. My life was already mapped out before I ever questioned it ; work, help my family, keep things from falling apart.

We weren't starving. That was important. We were just....always close to it.

My father worked whenever he could get hired - forestry, repairs, anything physical that paid in coins at the end of the week. 

My mother never stopped working. Even when her hands shook from exhaustion, she kept sewing, mending clothes for people who paid late or not at all. I used to watch her by the candlelight and think that tiredness was just what adulthood looked like.

So I started working young.

When the day finally ended, I stepped outside. The change was immediate. Cool evening air washed over me, crisp and fresh. I drew a slow breath, grateful to fill my lungs with something clean again.

The walk home was always quiet. By the time I reached home, the light was usually fading.

Our cottage was small enough that warm glow from the window could be seen from the end of the lane. It wasn't much - a weathered stone cottage, a roof that leaked whenever it rained too hard and a tiny vegetable garden that my mother refused to give up on.

I pushed open the door, the familiar scent of vegetable stew and freshly baked bread welcomed me home.

"There you are" my mother called from the kitchen without looking up. " I was beginning to think Mrs Hawthorn had decided to keep you."

I laughed softly. We had another shipment of herbs arrive this afternoon.

She glanced over her shoulders, her brown eyes softening. "Dinner's ready!"

Father was already seated at the table rubbing his aching shoulders.

"Long Day?" I asked.

He let out a quiet chuckle.

He looked older than his years. Deep lines around his eyes seemed to have appeared almost overnight, grey hair more prominent at the temples. His hands were rough and covered in small scars from years of hard labour. No matter how tired he was there was always kindness in his warm brown eyes.

I sat down beside father as mother placed our bowls of stew on the table.

He tore a piece of bread and looked at me.