Chapter 4: The Echo of Chaos

The first weekend without Samael dawned with a deafening silence. Calista woke to the golden glow of sunlight spilling through her warped windowpanes, casting long streaks of light across her floor. She stretched and rose from her bed, but as she stepped into the kitchen, the quiet was unsettling. Her hands lingered over the kettle before lighting the flame beneath it. Her eyes flicked instinctively to the corner of the room where the crib had stood just days ago. It was empty now, the faint scent of lavender and baby powder the only remnants of Samael’s brief stay.

“Too quiet,” she muttered under her breath, though the words came out begrudgingly. She shook her head, as if dismissing the thought, and busied herself with brewing tea. She’d always valued solitude; this shouldn’t have been any different.

Calista set to work immediately after breakfast. Her table was piled high with ingredients for potions she’d been meaning to restock for weeks. The rhythmic grinding of herbs and the faint crackle of simmering cauldrons filled the space, but even as she worked, her mind wandered. The sound of Samael’s laughter, the feel of tiny hands tugging at her hair—these memories drifted unbidden to the forefront of her thoughts.

By mid-morning, she found herself pacing the room. Tarsus, her black cat familiar, watched from the top of a shelf, his yellow eyes following her every move. “Don’t look at me like that,” Calista snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s not like I miss her.” Tarsus blinked slowly, his expression one of indifferent judgment.

Calista growled and returned to her table, her hands working with deliberate precision to channel her frustrations. She crushed a bundle of rosemary with more force than necessary, the sharp scent filling the room. “Babies are exhausting, loud, and messy,” she muttered, though her tone lacked conviction.

She tried to distract herself by tidying the cottage, a task she usually avoided unless absolutely necessary. As she cleared the corner where Samael’s crib had been, her fingers lingered over the faint grooves the legs had left in the wooden floor. The touch sent a pang through her chest that she quickly brushed aside.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered, shoving a stack of spellbooks onto a nearby shelf. “I have more important things to worry about.”

By early afternoon, she had exhausted every possible distraction. She sat in her armchair by the hearth, staring into the flames. The cottage was as it had always been—quiet, orderly, and filled with the tools of her craft. But for the first time in years, the quiet felt oppressive.

Her eyes drifted to a small stuffed bear that Lyra had left behind. It sat propped up against the wall, its stitched eyes seeming to gaze at her knowingly. She scowled at it, pointing an accusatory finger. “Don’t you dare give me that look,” she snapped, her voice sharp. But the bear, of course, didn’t respond.

As the afternoon wore on, Calista found herself standing at the door to her garden, staring out at the wild expanse of herbs and flowers. She considered going for a walk but quickly dismissed the idea. Instead, she returned to her armchair, her fingers tapping impatiently against the armrest.

By evening, the ache in her chest had grown unbearable. She brewed herself a cup of tea, hoping it would calm her nerves. The fragrant steam wafted up, but even the soothing aroma of chamomile and mint couldn’t quiet her thoughts. She found herself glancing at the empty space beside her chair, where Samael had sat just days ago, laughing as she kicked her tiny feet.

“You’re a fool,” she muttered to herself, taking a long sip of her tea. Her voice was tinged with bitterness, though she wasn’t sure if it was directed at Samael or herself.

As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Calista closed her eyes, letting the warmth wash over her. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t miss the chaos Samael had brought into her life. But the memories of the baby’s laughter and the weight of her tiny body in her arms refused to be silenced.

The following morning, Calista woke early, her mind restless. She threw herself into her work with renewed vigor, but the sense of emptiness lingered. Even as she ground herbs and chanted incantations, her thoughts drifted to Samael.

At midday, she stood in the corner of the room where the crib had been, her fingers brushing over the marks on the floor once more. She stared at the empty space, her jaw tightening. “It’s better this way,” she said aloud, though her voice wavered.

By late afternoon, the ache in her chest had become unbearable. She sat by the fire once more, her tea untouched on the small table beside her. Tarsus jumped into her lap, curling up with a low purr. Calista stroked his sleek fur absently, her gaze distant.

“You think I’m soft, don’t you?” she said, glancing down at the cat. Tarsus blinked up at her, his expression unreadable. Calista sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Maybe I am.”

As night fell, the quiet of the cottage pressed in around her. Calista stared into the flames, her thoughts swirling. She remembered the way Samael had smiled at her, the sound of her giggles filling the air. It wasn’t just the chaos she missed—it was the warmth.

She let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping. “Every other weekend,” she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible. “What have I gotten myself into?”

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. For the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel like a comfort. It felt like a loss.