The days in Fernstead passed softly, marked by sunlight and laughter.
Every morning, the sound of children's voices echoed through the rice paths small, playful songs that mixed with the calls of birds and the hum of wind in the fields.
Anna had learned to crawl faster now.
Her silver hair shimmered like water as she crept along the ground, laughing every time a butterfly passed before her.
I was still just a baby wrapped in cloth and carried gently in Goru's arms.
He treated me like his own little brother, holding me close as he walked the village paths with pride.
Behind him trailed a small crowd of children, singing silly songs and following wherever he went.
To them, Goru was a leader the little chief of Fernstead's children.
But among them was Jack the oldest of all.
He was four years older than Goru, and far bigger. His round cheeks and slow steps made him easy to tease, and the other children often laughed at the way he always carried food in his hands.
That morning, though, Jack wasn't laughing.
He was tired tired of being the one everyone mocked.
The children had been singing,
"March, march, Goru leads the pack! Jack just eats and never comes back!"
Jack's face turned red.
He clenched his fists, crumbs of bread still stuck to his fingers.
He wanted to prove himself to remind everyone that he wasn't just "the big lazy one."
And so he waited for Goru.
Goru was walking down the path as usual, carrying me in his small arms.
Anna was crawling beside us, her tiny hands pressing into the grass.
The other children followed behind, laughing, dancing, and clapping their hands in rhythm.
Then, from behind the trees, Jack stepped out.
His eyes were burning not with anger, but with a kind of wounded pride only a child could carry.
He stood in the middle of the path and shouted,
"Goru! Stop leading everyone! You're not the boss!"
The other children froze.
Goru blinked, confused but calm.
"I'm not the boss, Jack," he said quietly. "We're just playing."
But Jack's pride was already hurt.
He stomped forward, his hands trembling.
"You're always acting big because you carry the baby! Let's see how strong you really are!"
Before anyone could stop him, Jack pushed Goru hard.
Goru tried to keep his balance, but his feet slipped on the damp ground.
He twisted his body, trying to shield me with his arms and then we both fell.
There was a soft thud, followed by silence.
The children screamed.
Anna stopped crawling and began to cry.
The sound of their panic spread through the quiet morning like a sudden storm.
Some of the smaller ones ran away in fear, others froze where they stood.
Finally, one brave child ran back toward the village, shouting for help.
It was Mrs. Gareth, known as Clara, who came running first.
Her dress was soaked from washing clothes by the river, but she didn't hesitate for a second.
She rushed to Goru, her hands trembling as she lifted him and me from the ground.
Her eyes darted over us quickly searching for any blood, any wound.
"Goru! Erin! Are you hurt?"
Goru shook his head, though tears welled in his eyes.
I was still crying, startled more than harmed.
Jack stood frozen, his face pale with guilt.
The other children stayed silent, too scared to speak.
Clara sighed, relief softening her voice as she held us close.
"You foolish boys," she whispered. "You must never fight not here, not in Fernstead."
Her words weren't scolding. They were gentle like a mother's voice when she knows the lesson has already sunk deep into a child's heart.
That afternoon, peace returned to the village.
Jack apologized through tears, Goru forgave him without a word, and the children played again before sunset this time with laughter softer, calmer, and kinder than before.
For Fernstead, even its fights were just another kind of love
the kind that taught forgiveness before anyone had the chance to grow bitter.
And as the sky turned orange above the rice fields,
my father's voice could be heard far away, calling,
"Dinner's ready!"
The day ended like all others with warmth, laughter, and peace.