Days of Laughter
It had been a full month since my naming ceremony.
The rice fields were greener than ever, shimmering beneath the morning sun. The smell of wet soil and ripening grain drifted through the air, mixing with the laughter of children.
Life in Fernstead never hurried. The seasons flowed softly, and so did the days.
Anna had begun to creep by herself now, crawling across the wooden floor or through the grass, her silver hair glinting in the light.
Whenever she moved, she made small sounds of joy half-laughs, half-squeals as if the whole world was waiting for her to explore it.
I, being only a month younger, still couldn't move much on my own.
So Goru, who was three years old, usually carried me everywhere.
He was small, but strong and serious for his age. The other children admired him following wherever he went, copying everything he did.
"Come on, Erin," he would say, lifting me gently. "Let's go see Anna crawl again."
Then he would walk proudly through the village paths, holding me in both arms while Anna crawled beside us, smiling as if she knew she was part of something special.
While we played, the grown-ups worked.
My father and Mr. Gareth spent their mornings in the paddies, harvesting under the warm sun.
Their laughter carried across the fields as their sickles sliced through the tall rice stalks.
My mother and Mrs. Gareth followed behind them, gathering the rice plants from the muddy ground and tying them into neat bundles.
The sight of them working together was something everyone in Fernstead loved two families moving in harmony, their rhythm as steady as the wind through the fields.
My aunt, Captain Merlin, had already returned to the city.
Before she left, she placed her hand on my head and said,
"Grow strong, little one. Protect this peace someday."
Her words didn't mean much to me then — but my mother smiled with quiet pride as she watched her sister ride away down the dirt road.
And so the days passed.
When our parents went to the farm, Goru, Anna, and I stayed behind, watched by the elders who sat weaving baskets or polishing tools.
Goru would lead the other children through the village, pretending to be the "young chief," carrying me in his arms like a sacred treasure.
They'd march proudly, singing songs they half-remembered from their parents.
"March, march, Fernstead! Protect the rice! Protect the fish!"
Behind him waddled a plump boy named Jack, who was already four years old but twice Goru's size.
Jack loved food more than anything else especially rice cakes. He was always munching on something, crumbs stuck to his cheeks.
The other children teased him constantly,
"Jack the Rice Monster!" they called.
But Jack only laughed, chasing them clumsily until everyone ended up rolling in the grass together.
Even the adults smiled when they saw them.
Those were the days before I could even walk,
but they were the days I would later remember through stories,
through laughter,
through the way my mother's voice softened whenever she spoke of Fernstead's children
the ones who grew together like the rice they tended.
No war.
No sorrow.
Just sunlight, rice fields, and the sound of children's laughter echoing through a village that knew nothing but peace.