When she awoke, the other side of the bed was cold.
Her hand moved instinctively across the mattress, searching for her sister's warmth, but her fingers met only the rough canvas cover. The absence told her everything she needed to know. Rose had likely woken from nightmares again and slipped into their mother's arms before dawn.
Of course she had.
It was the day of the Fishing.
She pushed herself up on one elbow. Pale morning light filtered through the narrow window, just enough to make out the two figures on the other cot. Rose lay curled against their mother's chest, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, their mother looked younger, the tightness around her eyes softened, the strain of survival momentarily erased. But even in rest, there was a shadow beneath her expression, as though worry refused to loosen its grip completely.
Rose, by contrast, looked untouched by hardship—fresh as dew on a flower.
