The sun rose gently over Elysian Village, casting a golden glow over the dewy grass and the modest farmland surrounding the family home. The soft clucks of hens and the lowing of cows greeted the morning as Mary carried a small woven basket to the chicken coop. Her father, Harold, was already ahead, tying his work apron and preparing to milk the cows.

Mary knelt by the coop, carefully reaching under each hen to gather the warm eggs into her basket. The chickens clucked softly, some shuffling but otherwise docile. She smiled as she worked, the familiarity of the morning routine comforting her after the unsettling events of the previous evening.

"Got all the eggs, Mary?" Harold called from where he stood by the cows, his deep voice carrying easily over the quiet farmyard.

"Almost, Papa!" she called back, placing the last egg into the basket before rising to her feet. She walked over to where Harold was working, her steps light but purposeful. Her father handed her a stool and a small pail, motioning toward one of the cows.

“Let’s see how you’re doing with the milking today,” he said with a grin, his tone encouraging.

Mary nodded, setting the basket of eggs carefully to the side before taking her seat beside the cow. She worked diligently, her small hands steady as she grasped the cow’s teats and began to milk. The rhythmic sound of milk hitting the pail filled the air, and Harold watched her with a proud expression.

“You’re getting better at this, Mary,” he said after a moment, his arms crossed as he observed her technique. “Soon, when Liam is a year older, I’ll teach him next. But for now, you’ve got this down.”

Mary glanced up at her father with a small, pleased smile. “Really, Papa?”

“Really,” Harold said with a firm nod. “You’re learning the ropes well. Every part of running a farm is about timing and patience, and you’ve got both. Though…” He smirked slightly, “you still need to work on getting up earlier.”

Mary giggled softly. “I’m up earlier than Liam.”

“That’s not saying much,” Harold teased, chuckling. “That boy would sleep until the sun’s halfway up the sky if we let him.”

They both laughed, the warmth of the moment easing some of the lingering tension Mary still felt from the previous night. Harold reached out, ruffling her dark brown hair affectionately before moving to check on the other cows.

As they worked side by side, Mary felt a sense of peace returning, even if just for a little while. She was grateful for these quiet moments with her father, the steady rhythm of farm life grounding her and reminding her of the strength their family shared.

Once the pail was full, Harold stood and stretched, his broad shoulders catching the morning light. “Good work, Mary. Now, let’s get this milk inside and see if your mother’s up to making something special with it. Maybe fresh butter for tonight.”

Mary nodded, carefully carrying the pail of milk while Harold took the basket of eggs. As they walked back to the house, the warmth of the sun on her face, Mary allowed herself to hope that today would be uneventful—just another ordinary day on the farm.

Before Mary could lift the milk pail, Harold placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Mary, I heard from your mother,” he said gently, his voice low but steady.

Mary froze for a moment, her hands tightening around the pail's handle. She avoided her father’s gaze, her hazel eyes dropping to the ground. “M-Maybe it’s just my nightmare…” she murmured, her voice uncertain. She didn’t know how to put her unease into words—not to him, not without feeling like a silly child.

Harold crouched slightly to meet her eye level, his expression kind but firm. “Nightmares or not, lass, it’s clear something’s weighing on you,” he said. “And that’s alright. There’s no shame in being a bit spooked—especially with the stories this village’s got.”

Mary glanced up at him, surprised by his understanding tone. She opened her mouth to say something but closed it again, unsure of how to respond.

Harold smiled faintly, ruffling her hair as he often did to lighten the mood. “Tell you what, how about a change of scenery, aye? Why don’t you help me sell in the market today? Could be good to get out and focus on something else for a while.”

Mary blinked at him, her unease momentarily pushed aside by the unexpected offer. “Really, Papa? You’d let me come with you?”

“Of course,” Harold said with a wink. “You’re getting older now, Mary. Time you learned the trade—and maybe even earned yourself a sweet treat while we’re there.”

Mary managed a small smile at that, feeling a bit of the tension ease from her shoulders. “Alright, Papa. I’ll help.”

“That’s my girl,” Harold said, standing upright and gesturing for her to bring the pail. “Now, let’s get this milk inside and get ready. The market waits for no one.”

The morning was a bustle of activity as Harold and Mary prepared for their trip to the market. Together, they loaded the small wooden wagon with sacks of potatoes, onions, fresh eggs, and jars of homemade jam Carol had prepared earlier in the season. The donkey, old but reliable, stood patiently as Harold hitched it to the wagon, patting its side affectionately.

Inside the house, Carol and Poppy worked together to whip up a quick breakfast, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting through the cozy home. Carol handed Harold and Mary sandwiches wrapped in cloth, along with a small bundle of packed lunch for later.

“Take care, Harold,” Carol said as she tied her apron around her belly, her motherly tone extending to her husband and daughter alike. She turned her gaze to Mary, giving her a gentle smile. “And you, Mary, help your father there. Don’t be naughty, alright?”

Mary nodded quickly, balancing a basket of jam jars in her arms. “I’ll be good, Mama, I promise!”

Poppy, leaning casually against the doorframe with her hands on her hips, smirked. “Good luck selling, brother,” she teased. “I’ll help around the house while you’re gone.”

Harold paused, raising a skeptical eyebrow at his younger sister. “Help my wife, aye, but don’t help yourself too much, Poppy.” His voice carried a hint of warning, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his teasing tone.

Poppy gasped dramatically, placing a hand on her chest. “How dare you accuse the best auntie of such a thing! I’m practically a saint.”

Carol chuckled at their banter, shaking her head. “Poppy, just don’t let the kids talk you into skipping their chores. They’ve been trying to wiggle out of them all week.”

“I’ll keep ‘em in line,” Poppy said with a wink, ruffling Liam’s hair as he peered curiously into the wagon.

“See that you do,” Harold replied, climbing onto the wagon and taking the reins. He turned to Mary, who was already settling onto the seat beside him. “You ready, lass?”

Mary nodded eagerly, her earlier worries momentarily forgotten in the excitement of heading to the market.

As the donkey began to trot down the dirt path leading away from their little farm, Mary looked back to see her siblings waving from the doorway, with Poppy dramatically blowing kisses at them as if they were embarking on a grand journey. Mary laughed softly, turning her gaze forward as the village slowly came into view.

The road was uneven, the small wagon jostling with every rut and rock. Harold handled the reins with practiced ease, keeping the donkey steady as they made their way toward Ridge Town. The surrounding forest stretched out on either side of the path, the tall trees casting soft dappled shadows across the dirt road.

Mary sat beside her father, nibbling on her sandwich. She paused to take a sip from the bottle of milk, the cool drink a welcome refreshment in the growing warmth of the morning. Harold, doing the same, glanced at his daughter and smiled at her contentment.

After a moment of quiet, Mary tilted her head thoughtfully, looking out at the Ridge Forest as it passed them by. The sunlight filtered through the canopy, giving the woods a brighter, almost inviting feel compared to the darker, denser woods near their village.

“Papa,” Mary said, breaking the comfortable silence, “why does Ridge Forest feel lighter than the forest at the outskirts of our village?”

Harold glanced at her, raising an eyebrow at the unexpected question. He followed her gaze toward the trees before giving a low chuckle. “That’s an observant eye you’ve got there, lass,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich before continuing. “The Ridge Forest’s been tended to, see. Folks from Ridge Town cut back the undergrowth, clear paths, and keep the place open for travelers and hunters. Makes it feel a bit… safer.”

Mary’s brow furrowed as she thought about that. “And our forest? No one takes care of it?”

Harold shook his head. “Not much. The woods near Elysian have always been… wild. Folks steer clear of them unless they’ve got no choice. They’re old, Mary—older than Ridge Forest. Some say those woods have a memory, and not all of it’s good.”

Mary shivered slightly, her thoughts flashing back to the glowing eyes she’d seen the night before. She hesitated before asking, “Do you believe those stories, Papa? About the forest being… alive?”

Harold was quiet for a moment, his face thoughtful. “I believe there’s truth in every story,” he said finally. “Maybe not the way folks tell them, with fairies and boogeymen. But the woods have their own rules, their own life. Best we respect it.”

Mary nodded slowly, unsure if her father’s answer comforted her or made her more uneasy. She took another bite of her sandwich, letting the conversation drift away with the creaking of the wagon and the steady clip-clop of the donkey’s hooves.