Darron woke with a sharp inhale, as though surfacing from deep water. The dream—dark, heavy, and humming with strange whispers—lingered at the edge of his mind like smoke after a fire.
But the air around him was different.
It was morning. Clear, real and wonderful.
He lay still, letting the golden hush of dawn press gently against his skin. Through the open window above his bed, a soft breeze wandered in—cool and clean, laced with the scent of dew-wet grass and chimney soot. It carried the kind of sweetness only a spring morning could, like honey crisped over embers.
Somewhere, birds called to each other from rooftop to rooftop, their notes bright and curious. Below, the distant clack of hooves and the occasional murmur of waking voices stirred in the village. Someone was chopping kindling. Someone else was drawing water. Familiar sounds. Safe sounds.
Darron exhaled slowly.
He turned onto his side, eyes still half-closed, savoring the weightlessness that came after waking from a nightmare. The warmth of his blanket, the rough grain of the wooden floor beneath his feet when he finally stood—everything grounded him in the now.
He stretched, bones crackling faintly, and walked to the window. The sky was a wash of soft blues and peach, the rooftops touched with gold. Morning light spilled into his room, warming the old stone sill and painting shadows on the wall.
The dream tugged faintly at him still, a whisper buried in the quiet.
But Darron pushed it aside. It was morning. And the world, for now, was whole.
Darron pulled on his simple tunic, the cool fabric brushing against his skin as he dressed quickly, the quiet of the morning settling around him. The faint smell of herbs and wood smoke lingered in the air, a comfort he had grown accustomed to since his arrival in the village. He tied his boots with swift, practiced movements, the worn leather soft from use.
As he stood, adjusting the folds of his clothing, he glanced out the window once more. The morning was breaking fully now, sunlight filtering through the trees, casting long shadows on the ground. He took a deep breath and headed downstairs, his boots thudding softly on the wooden stairs.
Down in the kitchen, his mother was already bustling about, preparing breakfast. The scent of sizzling eggs and fresh bread filled the air, and Darron couldn't help but smile. It was one of those mornings that felt like everything might be normal again, as if the dreams and whispers from the night before could simply fade away.
"Good morning, ma," Darron greeted, leaning against the doorframe.
She turned, her eyes soft and warm as she wiped her hands on her apron. "Good morning, Darron. Sleep well?"
He nodded, sliding onto the bench at the kitchen table. "Yeah, just some strange dreams. Nothing more."
His mother's smile faltered for a brief second, but she quickly covered it with a light laugh. "Dreams can be odd sometimes. But I've got breakfast ready, your favorite."
He grinned, picking up the slice of bread she handed him. The comfort of her routine, the warmth of the kitchen, it almost felt like nothing had changed.
As he took a bite, his gaze wandered around the room, landing on the family portrait that hung slightly askew on the wall beside the hearth. The frame was worn, its once-polished wood now dull with age. The faces in the portrait were familiar yet distant—his mother, smiling softly, and a younger version of himself, just a boy, his eyes bright and full of life.
But it was the man beside her that caught Darron's attention. His father. A figure he had never truly known.
Darron set his bread down carefully, then reached for the portrait, brushing away the dust that had settled on its glass surface. The edges of the frame were chipped, the colors faded by years of neglect. He held it in his hands for a moment longer, studying the man in the picture—the same jawline, the same eyes, but the connection felt so far away.
Still holding the portrait, he turned toward his mother, his voice casual but edged with something unspoken. "Ma, what was father like?"
She froze, her hands stilling as she glanced at him, then at the portrait. Her eyes shifted, unsure for just a moment. "Your father... well..." She cleared her throat, setting the pot down on the stove. "He was a good man, Darron. A kind man. But he had his... his own troubles. Let's not dwell on that now."
There was a brief, uneasy silence, and Darron noticed how her eyes darted away, how her voice trembled just slightly. Something in her tone—the way she avoided the question—struck him like a cold gust of wind.
He wasn't sure what to make of it, but something told him it wasn't the first time his mother had steered the conversation away from his father. He stared at her for a long moment, her back now turned as she began to serve the food. Her movements were hurried, too quick for the peaceful breakfast they had usually shared.
Darron didn't press the issue. Instead, he sat back down, the taste of bread and eggs suddenly a little less satisfying. But in his mind, the question lingered. Why had his mother changed the subject so abruptly? What had she been hiding all these years?
As he ate, Darron made a mental note. One day, he'd get the full story.