The rain had a way of getting under your skin in Braemar. It was quiet, patient. You wouldn't even notice it at first, just a soft tapping against the broken windows, until you realized you were soaked through without ever stepping outside.
Elias Mercier sat by the cold hearth, staring at the crumbling stonework, listening to the rain. He didn't move much these days. Didn't speak unless he had to. Most of the time, there was no one to speak to anyway.
His hands rested on his knees, the knuckles pale. They'd been that way for hours, gripping nothing, but holding everything he couldn't let go of. A rifle. A letter he never sent. Faces he tried not to remember. It was all there, crowding his head, heavy as the sky.
It had been three days since he found the boy. Three days since everything changed. Again.
Outside, the village was trying to wake up. Grass growing wild through cracked cobbles. Daffodils blooming in places they weren't planted. Like they were mocking him. They didn't need permission to grow. No orders. No duty. Just a stubborn will to live.
He envied them.
The boy was still asleep in the corner. Luca. Barefoot, thin as a willow switch. He barely made a sound, even when awake. Elias had found him under what was left of the schoolhouse, breathing shallow but alive. Barely. Since then, the kid hadn't spoken a single word.
Elias wasn't sure if that made things easier or harder.
He ran a hand over his face, rough with a week's worth of beard. His fingers found the scar across his jaw out of habit. It had been there for years, but it still surprised him sometimes. Like finding an old wound you forgot to bandage.
There was an old journal on the table beside him. Not his. He found it tucked behind a stone in the fireplace, pages smudged but still readable. It was filled with neat handwriting and simple things—what day to plant potatoes, when the goats used to give birth. Lives that felt impossibly far away.
But there was one line that stuck with him, scratched in shaky ink on the inside cover:"What we plant in ashes, we water with hope."
He didn't know if he believed that. Not yet. But he kept reading it anyway.
Elias stood slowly, his knees creaking like old floorboards. He crossed to the door and rested his hand on the latch. The village lay silent in the mist beyond, but he could still hear echoes. The sharp crack of gunfire. Boots on wet stone. Screams that hung in the air long after voices were gone.
He exhaled, slow. Counted in his head. One. Two. Three. You're here. You're alive. That's something.
Behind him, fabric rustled. He turned.
Luca was awake. Watching him.
Dark eyes, too big for his face, too tired for his age. Elias gave a small nod. Nothing big. Didn't want to scare him off."Morning," he said, voice low. Rough from disuse.
Luca didn't answer. Just blinked.
"Come on," Elias said after a beat. "Let's find something to eat."
The boy hesitated, then stood. His feet were bare and dirty, but he walked like he'd done this before. Like he'd been surviving on nothing for longer than Elias wanted to think about.
They went to the garden. Or what was left of it. Mostly weeds now, but Elias could see the faint green of something useful. Potatoes, maybe. He knelt down, pushed his hands into the dirt, and started digging.
After a moment, Luca knelt beside him. His hands were small, his fingers thin and quick. They worked quietly, side by side, pulling up enough for a thin stew.
When they cooked it over a low fire, Elias didn't say much. He didn't have the words. Didn't want to use them up if they weren't needed. Luca watched him, sharp and silent, like he was memorizing every move in case he had to do it alone later.
They ate sitting on the cold floor. The stew was thin, the potatoes gritty, but they ate it anyway. Luca finished his bowl and set it down with both hands, careful not to make noise. Elias found himself watching the way the boy's fingers hovered just a second too long, like he wasn't sure if it was really okay to let go.
"You'll be all right," Elias said. It wasn't much, but it was the truth as best he could tell it. "We'll be all right."
Luca glanced at him. Not hopeful. Not yet. But listening.
Afterward, Elias pulled out the old map he carried. His finger traced the red circle over Braemar, then moved north. Toward the mountains. He didn't know if he was ready to go there yet. But he would. Eventually.
For now, the rain had stopped. Outside, a pale sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds. He looked at Luca. The boy's head was nodding forward, sleep catching him unaware.
"Rest," Elias murmured. "I'll keep watch."
Luca lay down again, curling up like he was trying to disappear. But he didn't take his eyes off Elias until they closed, heavy with sleep.
Elias stayed where he was, one hand still on the map. His fingers tapped against it absently, as if feeling for something that wasn't there yet.
He stared out the window. The light was thin, but it was there.
Maybe that was enough.