Author Puff: Last chapter for this week
Two days passed.
Not the dramatic kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind where things didn't suddenly get better—but also didn't get worse. And after everything we'd seen, that alone felt like a miracle.
Dad was still resting most of the time, but he could sit up now. He even insisted on helping peel vegetables, which lasted exactly five minutes before Porlyusica smacked his hand away with a spoon.
"You're not useful if you fall over," she snapped.
"I'm very useful," Dad protested weakly. "I'm emotionally supportive."
She didn't dignify that with a response.
I watched from the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to smile.
The village was… recovering.
Slowly.
People moved carefully, like their bodies hadn't quite remembered how to trust themselves yet. No running. No shouting. But doors were open again. Pots simmered. Someone laughed near the well, then immediately coughed and apologized for it.
Porlyusica paid attention to everything.
Not in a comforting way. In a sharp, assessing way. She asked short questions. Checked hands, eyes, breathing. Adjusted doses when needed. Never dramatic. Never rushed.
I followed her like a shadow.
Sometimes I handed her things. Sometimes I just watched. When she corrected me, she did it fast and blunt.
"No. Not like that."
"Too much."
"Again."
And when I got it right?
She didn't praise me.
She just didn't correct me.
Which somehow felt better.
That evening, rain started falling.
Light at first. Then steady.
We stayed inside, the sound tapping against the roof while Porlyusica sorted herbs by the table. Dad sat nearby, blanket around his shoulders, pretending not to be exhausted.
I was grinding dried leaves when my arms started to shake.
Not badly. Just enough to notice.
I paused, rolled my shoulders, and the familiar warmth spread through my muscles. The faint vibration settled them down, like it always did when I focused. Nothing flashy. Just… steadier.
Porlyusica noticed.
She didn't comment.
She never did.
Later, while Dad slept, she finally spoke.
"You don't fight your body," she said, still working. "You endure with it."
I blinked. "…Is that good?"
"It's efficient."
I'll take it.
The next morning, Garron left again.
Not to the city this time. Just to check the outer paths, make sure no one was stranded or worse. Before he went, he crouched in front of me.
"You did good," he said quietly. "Better than most adults I know."
"Low bar," I said.
He laughed, then sobered. "If you go… it won't be easy."
"I know."
He hesitated, then ruffled my hair. "Still. Proud of you."
That made my throat do something weird.
I blamed allergies.
The rare plant still hadn't been found.
Porlyusica grew more focused with each passing day—not frantic, just… intent. She described it again one evening, tracing the shape in the air with two fingers.
I listened carefully.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't joke.
When she finished, I nodded slowly.
"…I might know a place," I said.
She looked at me.
Really looked.
"Tomorrow," she said. "You show me."
No pressure or anything.
That night, Dad called me over again.
He looked better than before. Still thin. Still tired. But his eyes were clear.
"You're thinking about going," he said.
I didn't deny it.
"I don't want to leave you," I said quickly. "I really don't. I just… I don't want to be useless if something like this happens again."
He smiled sadly. "You were never useless."
"Dad."
He squeezed my hand. "If learning from her makes you stronger—if it lets you protect others—then I won't be the one to hold you back."
I swallowed. "I'll write. All the time."
"You'd better," he said. "And eat properly. You forget when you're busy."
Porlyusica stood by the doorway, arms crossed, looking like she wanted to argue with the concept of emotions itself.
"…I don't steal children," she muttered.
I snorted. "Disappointing. I was hoping for a dramatic kidnapping."
She glared. "Sleep."
Worth it.
The next morning, the rain had washed the air clean.
I stood at the edge of the village with Porlyusica, looking toward the trees. The path ahead felt longer than usual.
Not scary.
Just… real.
Dad watched from the doorway.
I waved.
He waved back.
And for the first time, the thought of leaving didn't feel like running away.
It felt like stepping forward.