Morning's first light spilled over the rooftops of the village, casting a gentle gold across dewy fields. Rose lay on her straw mattress, listening to the soft stirrings of her family waking. Outside, a rooster crowed high and insistent, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked at a fox daring to cross the field's edge.
She stretched, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders, and wrinkled her nose at the faint, ever-present tang of the tannery that lingered in her small room. The smell was like wet earth mixed with something sharper—something alive and stubborn. It was her mother's world, and she was already part of it, whether she liked it or not.
Her feet moved quietly across the cool wooden floor. The house smelled of smoked wood, dried herbs hanging from the beams, and the faint aroma of last night's stew. Her mother was already in the tannery, humming softly as she worked the hides. The rhythm of the paddle striking water was like a quiet song of industry.
"Rose!" her mother called without turning. "Come here and help! Stir it properly this time—don't splash it all over your dress!"
Rose stepped into the tannery, her eyes watering at the pungent mix of tanning vats. Hides floated in brown, frothy water, twisting and bobbing as her mother pushed and pulled with practiced ease. The paddle was heavy in Rose's small hands, and her first few strokes sent droplets flying across her arms.
"It smells like the pigs' backside," she muttered, scrunching her nose.
Her mother chuckled, warm and rich. "Maybe so," she said, "but someday you'll thank me. Leather is life in this village. Shoes, belts, cloaks—everything starts here. And it's a craft not everyone can manage. You'll be grateful when you've learned it."
Rose wrinkled her nose again but smiled. Even amid the stench, there was a kind of magic—the way a wet hide shimmered in the morning light, tiny flecks of sun catching the paddles' motion.
She carefully stirred the vat, counting her strokes to ensure the hides soaked evenly. Outside, she heard children's chatter—calling to each other, daring one another across the creek or to climb the old oak near the pasture. She imagined running out there, laughing and tumbling, but she lingered a moment longer with her mother, savoring the scent of leather and the hum of work.
When the morning chores ended, her mother wiped her hands on her apron and pulled Rose close. "Come on. Off to the fields with your father. The sun's high, and the soil waits."
Together, they walked to the edge of the village, where her father was already tilling a patch of earth. Horses stamped and snorted, dust swirling lazily around their hooves. Rose knelt beside him, helping to loosen the soil with her small hands, feeling the warm dirt crumble beneath her fingers.
"Remember," her father said, glancing at her, "the soil has memory. If you listen carefully, it will tell you what it needs—water, seeds, rest. Don't dig blindly."
Rose listened. The wind carried scents of wild herbs and blooming flowers. A faint green shoot peeked from a patch of earth where a peach pit had fallen days ago. She noticed it for a heartbeat but was called back to the rhythm of the work, leaving the tiny sprout behind.
By midday, the sun pressed hot on her shoulders. Rose and the other children ran to the river, laughing and dipping toes into the cool water. They dared each other to cross shallow stretches barefoot. Wildflowers brushed against their legs—bright daisies, delicate whites, and deep purple blooms that seemed to bow in acknowledgment as she passed. She paused to touch a violet's petals, feeling them shiver softly under her fingertips. Wonder flickered in her eyes, but a call from a friend snapped her back into the chase.
"Catch me if you can!" Lila shouted, her chestnut braids bouncing as she ran.
Rose kicked off her shoes and surged after her, feeling the sun warm her back, the hum of bees nearby, and the scent of wildflowers filling the air. They darted around a fallen log, leaped over a shallow stream, and tumbled into a heap, giggling and breathless. Dirt stained their knees and hands, and Rose's damp hair clung to her forehead. She felt alive—each heartbeat echoing the pulse of the land itself.
After a while, they collapsed in the grass, panting and laughing. Rose's gaze drifted to the edge of the field, where a tiny peach seed had slipped from her pocket that morning. She crouched and brushed the soil with her fingertips. A small green sprout pushed through the earth, pale and fragile, reaching toward her as if seeking sunlight. She frowned thoughtfully, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
Then Lila tugged her back to the group, and she left the sprout to its quiet growth, unnoticed by everyone.
As the afternoon waned, the children's laughter faded, and they began to help their families again. Rose trudged toward the tannery, where her mother was finishing the day's work. The air still carried the smell of wet hides and wood smoke. Her mother smiled, wiping her hands on her apron.
"You've grown quieter today," she said. "What's on your mind?"
Rose shook her head, though her thoughts still lingered on the tiny sprout in the field. She wanted to tell her mother, but the words felt too small for what she'd been feeling. Instead, she helped with the chores—carrying scraps of hide, sweeping the floor, listening to the hiss of water over leather. Even here, she felt the tug of life beneath her fingertips—the stubborn resilience of hides soaking in vats, the steady rhythm mirroring the heartbeat of the village.
As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in soft oranges and purples, villagers gathered around a fire near the village center. Smoke curled lazily upward, carrying the sweet aroma of roasted chestnuts. Elder Maren leaned on his cane, his voice steady and rich as he began to speak. The children gathered close, eager for his stories.
"Long ago," he began, "the beasts of the forest weren't as they are now. Some walked on two legs, others on four, but all bore minds as sharp as ours. They were guardians of the land, and only the faithful and wise could pass through their realms unharmed."
Rose listened, captivated. She loved the elders' stories—the way they carried whispers of truth amid myth. She imagined herself wandering through dense forests, meeting creatures that spoke in riddles, discovering lost and new fantasies. The firelight danced in her eyes, shadows flickering across the cottages.
"Some say," Maren continued, "the land itself remembers those who nurture it. A gentle hand can befriend a beast, a kind word can travel afar. But cruelty and fear… they leave many scars."
Elder Maren sat on a stump of wood, looking into the eyes of all the children around the fire and started his tale:
The night air was crisp, the sky above a canopy of stars. The villagers had gathered close around the fire, its flickering flames casting shadows that danced across their faces. Elder Maren, his weathered face illuminated by the glow, leaned on his cane, eyes distant as he prepared to share a story—one that carried the weight of many years and truths.
He took a slow breath, his fingers tightening briefly on his cane, then began, his voice deep and steady, carrying easily over the listening crowd.
"Long ago," he started, eyes fixed on the flickering flames, "there was a boy named Ewan, who wandered these very woods near his village. One evening, as the sun dipped low and shadows grew long, Ewan crossed a quiet clearing. And just as he stepped into the shadows, he heard a faint cry—soft, almost lost in the whispering wind."
Maren paused, his gaze flickering into the distance as if he saw the boy in his mind's eye. His voice softened but grew more intense.
"Curious, Ewan followed the sound. And what he found—ah, what he found—was a tiny rabbit, caught in a tangle of thorns. Its little paws were helpless, and fear shone in its eyes. The boy knelt carefully, his hands gentle, and with patience born of love and respect, he freed the creature."
Maren reached out slowly, his hand miming the gentle act, as if he were still kneeling in that moment. His eyes twinkled with quiet warmth.
"The rabbit blinked in relief, twitched its nose, and without hesitation, it darted into the underbrush—disappearing into the darkness, leaving Ewan behind. And that night, the boy went home, thinking little of the small act he'd done—just kindness, they might say."
He paused again, scratching his chin thoughtfully, then continued, voice growing richer.
"But a few days later, Ewan found himself lost in the woods, cold and tired. The rain had begun to fall, and the sky darkened with storm clouds. He didn't know which way led home, and fear crept into his heart."
Maren's eyes narrowed slightly, as if recalling the moment vividly.
"And just then," he said softly, "out of the thicket hopped the same little rabbit. But this time, it was no ordinary creature. Its eyes shimmered with a strange, bright spark, and it moved with a quiet confidence—like it knew exactly where it was going."
He leaned forward, voice lowering with a sense of reverence. "The rabbit paused beside Ewan, nudging his hand with its nose, as if urging him onward. Without hesitation, the boy reached out and gently clasped the tiny creature, trusting it completely."
Maren's face broke into a gentle smile as he mimicked the boy's action, his hand cupped softly.
"And so, the rabbit started hopping along, leading Ewan through the dark woods. It moved with purpose, straight and sure, and the boy followed, trusting in this small freind. After a while, they reached the edge of the trees, where the familiar fields and flickering lights of the village appeared—like a tourch in the night."
He sat back slightly, eyes shining with the memory, then finished softly, "From that day, Ewan knew—kindness to the smallest among us can carry us through the darkest days. That little rabbit, they say, was a spirit of the land itself—a guardian. And its return was a reminder that even the smallest acts of compassion can grow into great blessings."
Maren looked around at the children's eager faces, his expression gentle but serious.
"So remember," he said quietly, "every living thing has its place, and every act of kindness—no matter how small—might be a gift in return, when you need it most."
He paused, leaning back on his cane, the flickering firelight reflecting in his eyes. The story had settled into the quiet hush of the night, lingering like a warm breath across the gathered crowd.
As the evening grew cooler and villagers began retreating into their homes, Rose lingered by the fire, watching the embers fade. Her mind drifted to her parents, the stories, the fields, and that tiny sprout. A quiet magic pulsed in the world around her, one she was only beginning to notice—an awareness that made her feel both awe and unease, from the stories told to the gossip shared.
Her mother's voice called from the doorway, the scent of stew drifting into the night. "Rose, come inside. Time to wash up and eat before it gets too cold."
Reluctantly, Rose brushed dirt from her dress as she made her way home, sensing that she was part of something much larger, a living world that might notice her, in ways she didn't yet understand.
That night, as she lay in bed, the faint rustling of leaves outside her window echoed her heartbeat. Somewhere in the darkness, the tiny peach sprout pushed a little higher toward the moonlight. And Rose, drifting into sleep, dreamed of flowers that might someday grow.