A Mother's Hope is all I had

The wind carried the scent of apples and wet earth as it threaded through the village of Meerfeld, tugging at the loose braids of a girl crouched near a thicket of elderberry. She was nine years old, with brown hair tangled by the wind and eyes the color of stormy skies, too thoughtful for someone so young. Liora pressed her fingers into the cold soil, tugging free a handful of leaves, roots still attached. The frost was late this year, but it would come soon enough.

She placed the herb carefully into the woven basket beside her, already brimming with rosemary, lavender, and bits of wild mint. Beside it sat a smaller bundle of firewood and a carved wooden spoon, her mother's favorite, accidentally broken and then lovingly repaired with twine and patience. Liora had done the carving herself with her father's small knife, hands red from the effort.

The sun peeked through thin, silver clouds above the treetops, gilding the orchards with soft gold. Even in late autumn, the land held onto its beauty stubbornly. The gnarled apple trees behind the cottage still bore a few speckled fruits, most already gathered and preserved, dried, or cooked down into syrup. Their orchard wasn't as large as some of the wealthier farms closer to the river, but it was theirs and it had fed them for generations.

The path home was familiar, winding through ferns and crunching underfoot with dried leaves. Liora's boots were too small now, pinching at the sides. She never mentioned it. As she walked, she hummed a tune Linna had made up a few days ago, something about bees and butter and fairies who danced in the trees.

The cottage appeared ahead, smoke curling from its crooked chimney. It was a squat building, all leaning wood and patchwork stone, but Liora loved it as fiercely as if it were a castle.

Inside, the warmth of the hearth met her like an embrace. Her mother looked up from the mending, her thread-worn hands still. "Back already?" she asked softly, her voice like warm broth, gentle, but weary.

Liora nodded, placing her basket near the hearth. "Nan Theda said the frost might come early this year. She gave me extra lavender for Linna's cough."

Her mother's eyes softened, but they were shadowed. She was beautiful in a quiet way, skin pale as birch bark, dark hair bound in a loose braid. She had aged quickly these past two winters, lines deepening at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked up the needle again.

Liora heard a small giggle from the loft.

"Liora! Liora!" came the sing-song voice. "You're back! Did you see the fairy pond?"

"There's no fairy pond, Linna," Liora called, grinning as she climbed the wooden ladder.

Linna sat nestled in a pile of wool blankets, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of fever. Her honey-brown hair curled against her forehead, and her nose was pink from rubbing. Despite the cough that racked her small frame, she beamed at her sister.

"There is a fairy pond. I saw it in my dreams. They wear mushroom hats and eat sugar clouds."

Liora laughed and settled beside her, pulling a wooden doll from her pocket, a tiny figure with a crooked smile and arms that could move. "I brought someone to visit. This is Sir Turnip. He's very brave."

Linna gasped and took the doll reverently. "He's perfect. He needs a friend though. Maybe… Lady Beetroot?"

"I'll carve her tonight," Liora promised.

Their world, small as it was, felt whole in that moment.

Later that afternoon, Liora tended to the chores. She chopped vegetables for stew, stirred the pot while Linna napped, then stepped outside to gather more wood before the light faded. The village paths were quiet, dusted in brittle leaves. Chickens clucked from the neighbor's yard, and a dog barked from somewhere near the blacksmith's.

She stopped at Nan Theda's cottage, a smaller place nestled between two yew trees. Theda herself was bent over a row of dried herbs, sorting them into little cloth bundles.

"Evening, child," Theda said without looking. Her eyes were sharp, always watching something just beyond the veil of the world.

"Mama says thank you for the lavender. Linna's been coughing again."

Theda nodded, then finally looked at her. "You're different, Liora. You listen. Not many do. The trees, the wind… they speak to those who pay attention."

Liora bit her lip, unsure how to answer. She glanced toward the forest line. "Do they say anything today?"

"Only that change is coming. And not all storms come with thunder."

That night, the fire crackled low. Linna lay in bed between their parents. Their mother's hand rested on her chest, rising and falling with every labored breath. Liora sat nearby, carving another doll.

Her father entered, the door closing with a dull thud behind him. He carried the cold in with him, along with a silence that filled the room like smoke.

He was a tall man, with rough hands and a quiet way of moving. His coat was damp, and his face grim.

"The pass to the south is snowed in already," he muttered, removing his boots. "It's too early."

Their mother's eyes met his. Something unspoken passed between them.

Liora set the carving aside. Her hands trembled.

The storm was coming.

And for some reason, it felt like more than snow.