The village slept under a sky full of lantern‑bright stars.A soft wind carried the smell of tilled earth and fresh straw, and the fields whispered as they swayed.At the far end of the dirt path stood a modest house, walls patched with care, its windows glowing orange from the fire within.
Inside, laughter filled the small home.
The boy was curled up on a straw mattress, the worn wool blanket tucked under his chin. His breathing was soft and steady, the kind of deep rest only a child knows.Beside him lay his little sister, no older than five, her tiny hand clutching his sleeve even in sleep. A lock of her hair tickled his cheek, but he didn't stir. In his dreams, he was chasing her through tall grass while their parents called after them.
In the main room, his mother hummed while she mended a tear in his sister's dress. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, the thread darting in and out beneath the lantern light. Every so often she'd glance toward the bedroom door, a fond smile crossing her face.
"You're always sewing," his father teased, voice deep and warm."And you're always carving," she replied with mock indignation, nodding toward the half‑finished toy in his hands.
The man chuckled, smoothing the small wooden horse with his knife. "It has to be perfect. He said he wanted one that can 'gallop faster than real horses,' remember?"She laughed, shaking her head. "And you told him you'd make it. Foolish man."
They both laughed then, easy and genuine, the sound mingling with the crackle of the hearth.
Time passed in that gentle rhythm.The boy stirred once, half‑awake, and saw his sister's little face turned toward him, mouth open in a soft sigh. He smiled sleepily, brushed her hair from her forehead, and whispered, "Good night, Emi."She didn't answer, but her hand squeezed his sleeve tighter before she drifted deeper into dreams.
From the other room came the sound of his parents talking—low, intimate voices weaving plans for tomorrow:"We'll take them to the river," his mother said."They'll love it. We can fish for breakfast.""And you'll let him try your spear again?""He's stubborn like his old man."Another warm laugh. The boy, still half‑dreaming, felt safe, anchored by those voices.
The fire dimmed to embers. His father set aside the carving knife, flexing sore hands. His mother placed the mended dress neatly over a chair. For a while they simply sat together, enjoying the quiet, the closeness, the steady rhythm of a life well‑lived.
Outside, the wind picked up, rustling through the leaves.
"Do you hear that?" his mother asked softly."Hear what?" his father replied, brow furrowing.
A long, thin sound drifted in through the shutters—a sound that didn't belong to wind or night birds.It was faint, stretched over distance, but unmistakable: a wail, high and mournful, carrying from somewhere beyond the village fields.
They both froze, listening.The boy and his sister slept on, unaware.The parents exchanged a glance, unease creeping into their eyes.
The wail came again, sharper this time, echoing through the night.
And then the night held its breath.