Morning never arrived loudly in our house.
It didn't crash in through the windows or shake me awake the way Dad said mornings did in the village. It came quietly, slowly, as if it were afraid to disturb something fragile. Light slipped through the thin curtains in pale, uneven stripes and crept across the floorboards inch by inch, stopping just short of my futon. Dust floated lazily through the air, each speck glowing for a moment when it crossed the sunlight before disappearing again. I used to think they looked like stars that had fallen out of the sky and forgotten how to go back.
I watched them for a long time.
I was awake before Ella again. I usually was. I didn't know why. I just knew my eyes opened before the house fully woke, before the birds outside grew brave enough to sing loudly, before the warmth from the hearth downstairs settled into something comfortable. Dad said I was naturally alert. Mom said I worried too much. I thought mornings just felt important, even when nothing important was supposed to happen.
I shifted slightly on the futon, careful not to make the fabric rustle. The room smelled of old wood and clean linen, familiar and safe in a way that made my chest feel light. Ella slept beside me, sprawled across her bedding like she didn't know personal space existed. One arm was flung above her head, the other tangled in her blanket as if she was afraid it might run away. Her hair stuck out in every direction, flattened on one side and puffed up on the other, and one sock had slipped halfway off her foot during the night.
I watched her breathe.
Ella always kicked in her sleep. Always. Mom said she dreamed with her whole body. Dad said she fought monsters in her dreams. Ella herself insisted she was practising hero moves. Once, she'd kicked me so hard in the middle of the night that I'd rolled straight off the futon and hit the floor. She hadn't even woken up. She'd just mumbled something about dragons and kept sleeping.
This morning, though, she was still.
That made something twist in my stomach, even though I didn't know why.
I sat up slowly and leaned over, tugging the blanket back up around her shoulders the way Mom always did. Ella shifted, her brow furrowing for a second like she sensed movement, then relaxed again. Her breathing evened out, soft and steady. I waited until I was sure she wouldn't wake up before standing.
The floorboards were cold under my feet. I padded to the door, then stopped and looked back at her one more time. I didn't know why I did that. I just needed to see her there, asleep, safe, exactly where she was supposed to be.
Only then did I slide the door open and step into the hallway.
The house was awake in its own way.
Not noisy, not busy, just… aware. The faint crackle of dying embers drifted up from downstairs along with the warm smell of ash and wood. The wind brushed against the outer walls, making the wood creak softly. I had learned over time what those sounds meant. Dad said listening to a house was like listening to a living thing. If you paid attention, it would tell you what it needed.
The stairs creaked as I went down, but only a little. I knew which steps complained and which stayed quiet. I'd memorised them without meaning to. Dad said that kind of awareness came from practice. Mom said it came from being nosy. I liked both explanations.
The kitchen wrapped around me in warmth the moment I entered.
The hearth still glowed faintly, orange embers pulsing like a slow heartbeat. The air smelled like bread and honey and something sweet that made my stomach tighten with hunger. Mom stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour as she kneaded dough in slow, steady motions.
She hummed quietly to herself. Not an actual song, just a gentle rise and fall that followed the rhythm of her hands. It was the kind of sound that made everything feel safe without anyone ever saying it out loud.
She didn't turn around.
"Good morning, Kawa."
I stopped short. "How did you know it was me?"
She smiled, though I could tell without seeing her face. "Your steps are lighter than your father's," she said, still working the dough, "and heavier than Ella's."
I thought about that seriously. "So… I'm in the middle?"
She laughed softly and finally turned to look at me. "Exactly in the middle."
Something about that answer made me feel settled, like I was where I was supposed to be.
She handed me a small bowl and pointed toward the basin. "Wash your hands. If you're helping, you do it properly."
I scrubbed my hands carefully under the cold water until my fingers stung. I didn't mind the cold. It made me feel awake, like I was preparing for something important. When I turned back, Mom was watching me. Not in a strange way. Just… watching. Like she needed to be sure I was really there.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. Then, after a moment, "Ella kicked me again."
Mom sighed. "She always does."
"She's like a wild animal."
"She's one," Mom said, smiling. "That's close enough."
From outside came the steady sound of chopping wood.
Chop.
Pause.
Chop.
Dad.
After breakfast, I went out to help him stack the firewood. The air was cool against my skin, the kind of cool that felt clean. Dad worked with practised ease, axe rising and falling in controlled movements. He never rushed. Dad said rushing was how people got hurt.
He noticed me immediately, even without turning around. "You're up early."
"I always am."
"That's true." He set the axe aside and wiped his brow. "Help me stack these."
I carried smaller logs one by one. Dad corrected my grip gently when I lifted one wrong, showing me how to bend my knees, how to keep my back straight.
"You don't want to end up crooked when you're older," he said.
"I won't get old," I replied.
Dad snorted. "That's what everyone says."
As the sun climbed higher, the village woke up around us. Doors opened. Voices drifted down the road. Someone argued loudly about prices. Someone else laughed. Everything sounded normal, heavy with routine and familiarity.
Ella burst outside then, hair half-brushed and eyes shining.
"Broooooooother!"
She slammed into me at full speed. I stumbled back and pretended to fall, dropping onto the ground with an exaggerated groan.
"Hey—no warning attacks!"
"It's an ambush!" she declared proudly.
Dad chuckled from the fence, arms crossed. Mom joined him, wiping flour from her hands, her laughter light and real. We played like that for a long time—tag, hide-and-seek, pretending the old tree was a castle. Ella insisted she was the queen. I had to kneel and swear loyalty. Dad was the dragon. Mom laughed until she had to sit down.
The sky was blue. The air was warm. Everything felt right.
Then there was a loud bang from somewhere down the road.
I barely reacted.
Mom did.
It was small. Almost nothing. A sharp inhale. Her shoulders stiffened. Her hand tightened on the table. Then it was gone, as it had never happened. She smiled again.
I frowned.
"Mom?" I asked.
"Yes?" She brushed my hair back gently.
"…Nothing."
Dad watched her a moment longer than usual.
By afternoon, the day stretched on lazily. Chores were done slowly. Conversation drifted without urgency. But underneath it all, something felt tight. Like a string pulled just a little too far.
I didn't have words for it.
I only knew that even surrounded by warmth and laughter, something unseen had already begun to shift.
And the day was far from over.
The afternoon dragged itself forward the way it always did, slow and lazy, stretched thin by sunlight and routine. After the games ended and Ella finally tired herself out, she sat cross-legged in the dirt drawing shapes with a stick while Mom went back inside to prepare dinner. Dad stayed outside longer than usual, not chopping wood anymore, just standing near the fence with his arms crossed, watching the road like he expected someone to appear if he stared hard enough.
I noticed.
I always noticed when Dad did things without doing anything.
Normally, after work was done, he relaxed. He hummed sometimes, the same tune Mom used in the kitchen, low and almost embarrassed, like he didn't want anyone to hear. Today, though, he was quiet. His eyes followed every passerby, every shadow that moved where the road curved out of sight. When someone slowed near our house, even for a moment, Dad straightened slightly, muscles tightening in a way that didn't look like rest at all.
I pretended not to see it.
I helped Ella build a "fort" out of fallen branches near the tree, though it kept collapsing because she insisted the entrance had to be "extra dramatic." She complained loudly every time it fell, glaring at the sticks as they'd betrayed her. I laughed and rebuilt it again and again, because that's what older brothers did.
But even as I laughed, I kept glancing at Dad.
Eventually, a man I didn't recognise passed by the road. He walked slowly, too slowly, his gaze lingering just a bit too long on our house before he moved on. Dad's hand went to his side unconsciously, fingers curling like he expected something to be there that wasn't. When the man disappeared from view, Dad let out a breath I hadn't realised he was holding.
"Dad?" I asked.
He turned toward me immediately, expression smoothing out like it always did. "Yes?"
"Do you know him?"
Dad followed my gaze down the road, then shook his head. "No. Probably just passing through."
He smiled when he said it.
The smile didn't reach his eyes.
As the sun began to dip lower, Mom called us inside. The smell of soup filled the house, rich and warm, but it felt heavier than usual, clinging to the air instead of drifting comfortably. Ella chattered nonstop as she washed her hands, telling Mom an exaggerated story about how I'd "almost lost" to her in a duel. Mom laughed at the right places, nodding and reacting like she always did, but there was a tightness around her eyes I didn't remember seeing before.
Dinner was quiet.
Not uncomfortable-quiet. Not at first. Just… restrained. Like everyone was being careful not to knock something fragile over.
Dad asked about our day even though he'd been there for most of it. Mom asked Ella what she wanted to dream about tonight. Ella said dragons again. Mom smiled and told her to make them friendly ones this time. Ella promised nothing.
I ate slowly, listening to the scrape of bowls and the soft clink of spoons. Every sound felt louder than it should have been. I became aware of the way Dad sat straighter than usual, his back never touching the chair. Mom kept glancing toward the window, even though the curtains were drawn.
At one point, something fell outside.
Just a thump. Probably a branch.
Mom flinched hard enough that her spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered against the bowl.
Ella giggled. "Mom, you scared yourself!"
Mom laughed too, but it came out too sharp, too quick. "Silly me," she said, reaching for the spoon. Her hands shook just slightly as she picked it up.
I felt something twist in my chest.
After dinner, Dad insisted on checking the locks himself, even though Mom usually did it. He tested each one carefully, pressing against the door as if expecting it to give way. When he reached the front door, he paused longer than the rest, his hand resting against the wood.
I didn't say anything.
Ella didn't notice. She was already sprawled on the floor, playing with a wooden figure Dad had carved for her years ago. Mom cleaned quietly, her movements precise and controlled, as if she were afraid of making noise.
Later, as the sky darkened outside and the village lights flickered on one by one, Dad finally sat down beside me.
"Come here," he said.
I obeyed immediately, sitting straight with my hands on my knees the way he'd taught me. Dad studied me for a long moment before speaking, his gaze sharp but not unkind.
"Do you remember what I told you about breathing?" he asked.
I nodded. "Slow. Quiet. Like I'm not there."
"Good." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Try it."
I did. I slowed my breathing, counting silently in my head, letting my chest rise and fall as gently as possible. Dad watched intently, nodding once when I finished.
"Again," he said.
I did it again.
And again.
After the third time, he placed a hand on my shoulder. It was warm. Solid. Reassuring.
"You're doing well," he said. "Remember this."
I wanted to ask why.
I didn't.
That night, Mom tucked us into bed earlier than usual. Ella complained, of course, kicking her feet and pouting dramatically until Mom kissed her forehead. Mom lingered there longer than normal, brushing Ella's hair back slowly, carefully, like she was memorising the shape of her face.
When Mom turned to me, her smile wavered.
"Sleep well, Kawa," she said softly.
"You too," I replied.
She paused at the door before leaving, glancing back at us one last time.
I lay awake for a long time after that.
The house felt different in the dark. Not unsafe. Just… watchful. Like it was holding its breath. I listened to the sounds around me — the wind, the distant murmurs of the village, the faint creak of wood settling.
Then I heard voices.
Mom and Dad. Whispering.
I slipped out of bed quietly and crept toward the kitchen, staying in the shadows. I couldn't hear everything, but pieces reached me through the silence.
"…too soon," Mom said, her voice trembling.
"They shouldn't even know we're here," Dad replied.
"They do," Mom said. "They always do."
There was a pause. Then Dad spoke again, quieter this time.
"If it's already reached Celestara, then time is not on our side."
My breath caught.
I didn't know what that meant. I only knew the name of the place made Mom's voice break when she said it again.
I backed away slowly, heart pounding, and returned to bed before they noticed me.
Ella slept peacefully beside me, completely unaware.
I stared at the ceiling, replaying Dad's words over and over, trying to make sense of them.
I failed.
Sleep eventually took me, but it wasn't gentle.
And for the first time, I dreamed of doors that would not stay closed.
Night settled over the house like a velvet curtain. It wasn't sudden, like a switch being flipped. It crept, inch by inch, soft and slow, stretching shadows into corners, pressing against the walls, curling around the beams. The air cooled and smelled different somehow—damp, earthy, faintly metallic—and I could feel it crawling into my lungs. It made me restless, even though my body wanted sleep. I listened. Listened to the house. Listened to the silence that wasn't really silence.
Ella slept on the other side of the room, curled into a tiny ball, her small chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of dreams. I watched her for a long time, afraid to shift, afraid to breathe too loudly, afraid that even the tiniest sound could wake her. My fingers touched the wooden pendant around my neck, the smooth edges cold against my skin. I didn't know why I held it so tightly, but I couldn't stop. It was warm in a way that seemed to soak into me, grounding me, keeping me from floating into the strange unease that had been following me since late afternoon.
I got up carefully, sliding my feet over the futon so they didn't make a sound. The floorboards creaked once, softly, and I froze. I could hear the wind brushing against the walls, the soft groan of the house settling, the faint creak of hinges somewhere upstairs. Every noise made me tighten, every shadow made me squint. I walked toward the door, drawn by a need I didn't understand. My small hands turned the handle slowly, and I pushed it open just enough to slip into the hallway. Darkness swallowed me immediately, thicker than anything I'd ever felt. It pressed against my skin, making the hair on my arms stand up.
I could hear them still.
Mom and Dad. Whispering. Low, hurried voices that trembled just slightly, just enough that a child could notice even if they didn't understand. The words didn't make sense. I didn't need to understand them. The tone, the urgency, the strain—that was enough. My chest tightened. My stomach curled. Something in me shifted. Something small and cold that I hadn't felt before stirred awake. I pressed myself against the wall, careful to stay in the shadows, listening. Every word was muffled, almost swallowed by the house, but the sharp edges of worry cut through the haze of sleep and warmth I'd been wrapped in all day.
A sudden noise made me flinch—a chair scraping against the floor downstairs. It wasn't unusual, not really. Mom and Dad had moved things all day. Still, my pulse jumped. My small hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wanted to wake Ella to tell her everything was fine, but the voice in my head whispered: Not yet. Don't. Don't ruin it. So I stayed, pressed to the wall, tiny and invisible.
I crept toward the stairs next, drawn by the low murmur of their conversation. Each step was a calculation. Lean left, foot down lightly, pause. Lean right, foot down lightly, pause. The house groaned in response to my weight, a soft, sleepy groan that made my stomach twist with a mix of fear and fascination. I didn't understand why it mattered that I was careful. I just knew it did. Some part of me, the part that always noticed little things, the part that learned to watch shadows move before they touched the ground, told me that tonight was different. Something is coming.
The hallway stretched before me, darker than I'd ever remembered. Shadows pooled around the corners like thick, slow-moving water, and I felt the pull of every tiny detail: a crack in the floorboard, a slight tilt in the ceiling beam, the way the lantern light from the kitchen barely spilt past the doorway. I could smell the scent of flour from the bread Mom had been kneading, the lingering smell of the stew Dad had stirred hours ago, the quiet warmth that meant life and normalcy. And yet it all felt wrong. Wrong in a way I didn't understand, as the world had shifted just enough that something I loved was slipping, inch by inch, away from me.
I heard a cough then. Very faint. Too faint to be anything but deliberate. My pulse jumped. I froze completely. The whispering stopped immediately. I thought maybe I had imagined it. Then I heard Mom's voice, sharper this time, low and tense. "We don't have much time. You know what must happen."
Dad's reply was quieter, but I could feel the weight of it in the room. "I know. Just… keep him safe. No matter what."
Something inside me twisted. My stomach lurched. My chest felt hollow. I didn't understand. I didn't understand the words. I didn't understand the weight behind them. But I understood enough to know it was serious. It was terrifying. I wanted to scream, to run to them, to demand that they tell me what was happening, but I stayed silent, small, unseen. Part of me already knew that being seen right now was dangerous. Part of me already knew that tonight would change everything, even though I didn't know how.
I crouched there for what felt like hours, listening. The whispers started again, soft, hurried, almost frantic. Mom's hand brushing against Dad's, a soft rustle of fabric, then nothing. I wanted to reach out to touch the warmth they radiated, but my small hands stayed pressed to the wall. The house felt alive in a new way—its heartbeat, the creak of the beams, the faint sighing of the wind—all of it seemed to pulse with a single intent I didn't yet understand. Something was coming. Something unstoppable. And I was supposed to hide and wait for it.
Sleep came again, finally, but only fitfully. I dreamed of shadows moving in patterns I didn't recognise, of warmth turning cold, of Mom and Dad's voices merging with the wind into something strange and urgent. I woke once, heart hammering, to the sound of silence. Not the ordinary silence, but the kind that pressed on your chest and made it hard to breathe. I stayed perfectly still, small, invisible, waiting for whatever it was that was meant to arrive.
By the time the first stars appeared, delicate points of light trembling in the night sky, I lay still on the futon, eyes wide, clutching my pendant. The house was quiet now. The air was heavy, thick with anticipation I couldn't name. And I realised, somewhere deep in me, that the world I had known, the house, the warmth, the laughter, even Ella's small, sleeping body—it had already begun to fracture. The cracks were there, and I could feel them, like the faintest tremor beneath my feet, warning me that nothing would ever be the same again.
"I didn't know then that this was the last morning, nothing was wrong."