The busy pack territory I had left behind was nothing like the tiny town of Silver Pine. There were charming cottages lining the streets, smoke curled languidly from chimneys, and the air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and pine. It was quiet here, serene in a way that was both strangely comforting and alien.
I stopped to look at my new home, my breath hazy in the cool morning air. At the outskirts of town, tucked away between a row of ancient pines and a clear, bubbling stream, I had discovered a simple cabin. That life felt like it belonged to someone else now, even though it was very different from the Luna's quarters I had previously imagined.
I repositioned the little bundle in my arms while looking down at my son's small, dozing face. I felt a wave of calmness that anchored me to this new reality. His tiny fingers curled around the edge of his blanket, and his soft breaths were hardly audible due to his small size. His dark hair and powerful little jaw reminded me of Logan, but he was also unique, and every time he opened his eyes, my green eyes stared back at me.
"Looks like it's just you and me now," I whispered, lightly stroking his cheek. I had never experienced such a strong sense of protectiveness as his eyelids fluttered. Now that it was just the two of us, I would stop at nothing to make sure he had everything he needed.
After we entered the cabin, I placed him in the little cot I had improvised in a main room corner. The cabin felt secure despite having only a bed, a kitchen, and a small table by the window. I could breathe at last, away from the pack, away from the whispers and prying eyes.
I settled into a new rhythm during the ensuing weeks. They grew some vegetables and herbs in the little garden in the back to save money on food in the mornings. I had mastered the art of keeping to myself, keeping my head down, and only sneaking into the neighbourhood stores when required. Fortunately, despite Silver Pine's close-knit community, everyone respected one another's privacy. Nobody enquired as to my origins or the reason for my solitude.
Naturally, that didn't stop the neighbours from giving you a few interesting looks. The day after our arrival, Mrs Jensen, a charming, grey-haired woman from the cottage next door, had stopped by with a basket of freshly baked bread. She smiled at me knowingly when she saw my son, but she only asked a few courteous questions.
"Are you a single mother?" With understanding in her eyes, she had asked politely.
I nodded, appreciating her approval. It's just the two of us, yes.
She patted my hand and said, "Well, you're not alone here." Just holler if you ever need assistance.
Since then, I've occasionally seen her, either dropping by with some veggies or herbs from her garden or waving from her porch. She was now a silent, reassuring presence, a reminder that good things were still possible.
I found myself getting used to this new life as the weeks stretched into months. Simple chores like feeding my son, caring for the garden, and learning how to take care of myself in ways I had never had to before made up each day. I knew that we were better off here, even though I missed the pack and the sense of community that went along with it. I didn't regret anything.
My son, who was only a few months old, was developing quickly. His laughter reverberated throughout the cabin, dispelling any lingering melancholy that occasionally persisted during the quiet times. The things that made me remember why I had left and why I had chosen this path were his first smiles and the way his little hand would reach out for mine.
I took him down to the stream's edge one cool morning and covered him with a warm blanket. Golden and red, the autumn leaves were starting to fall and swirled about us like a soft promise of change. I held him close while he cooed and his wide eyes gazed in wonder at the world.
I muttered, "Look at all this," as I gestured to the vibrant leaves floating by. "We now live in this world. Together, you and I.
Something inside of me changed as I watched him; a gentle sense of calm replaced the pain that had persisted since the night I had run away. My life wasn't at all what I had anticipated. But perhaps—just possibly—this was my destiny.
I was hanging laundry outside to dry one afternoon when I heard footsteps coming. The old instincts kicked in, making my heart skip a beat, but when I looked up, I saw it was Mrs. Jensen, and her kind smile made me feel less anxious.
She retrieved a small bundle from her bag and said, "Aria." "I believed you might require these."
She presented me with several knitted blankets, each one lovingly made and soft. Her kindness touched me, and as I took them, my throat constricted.
I whispered, "Thank you, Mrs. Jensen." "You have no idea the significance of this to us."
Her eyes were soft as she patted my arm. "My dear, you are a strong woman. Nobody should be able to convince you otherwise."
Her words strengthened the barriers I had been meticulously erecting around myself, settling over me like a balm. For my son and the life we were establishing here, I would be resilient.