The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow through the small windows of the house. The family gathered around the sturdy wooden table, the smell of grilled fish and rabbit stew wafting through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the fresh bread Carol had baked earlier.

The table was simple but inviting. In the center, a steaming pot of rabbit stew sat proudly, its rich, savory aroma making everyone’s stomachs rumble. Next to it was a platter of perfectly grilled fish, their skin crisp and golden, with hints of herbs and salt that Harold had seasoned earlier. Small bowls of fresh vegetables and some slices of bread completed the meal.

“Liam, you did good with the fish today,” Harold said, giving his son a hearty pat on the back as he reached for a piece of fish. “Caught just enough to make this a proper feast!”

Liam beamed with pride, a little shy under the attention. “It wasn’t that hard, Papa. Just a bit of patience.”

Rosette giggled. “You were gone for hours, though!”

“Quiet, you,” Liam muttered, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth, earning laughter from everyone at the table.

Harold leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling as he began one of his stories. “Did I ever tell you all about the time I was your age, Liam, and I caught a fish so big it pulled me straight into the river?”

Michael gasped, his little face full of wonder. “Really, Papa? Did you catch it?”

“Oh, I caught it, alright,” Harold said, grinning. “But not before I was soaked to the bone! Your grandpa had to haul me out while laughing so hard he could barely stand.”

Carol chuckled, shaking her head as she ladled more stew into Michael’s bowl. “I’ve heard that story a hundred times, and it still makes me laugh.”

Mary, sitting quietly beside her mother, smiled as she listened. She loved these moments, the sound of her family’s laughter filling the room. She dipped her bread into her stew, savoring the flavors that spoke of home—her father’s hard work, her mother’s love, and her siblings’ excitement.

“Papa, tell another story!” Rosette said, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling.

Harold stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Alright, let’s see… Have I ever told you about the time I helped old Mr. Hemley track down the lost goat that turned out to be hiding in the Ridge Forest?”

“No, tell us!” the kids chorused, their faces eager.

As Harold launched into another tale, the warm light of the fireplace flickered, casting cozy shadows on the walls. The house was filled with the sounds of clinking bowls, cheerful chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter.

For a little while, the worries of the day faded away. The family, with full bellies and light hearts, soaked in the joy of simply being together. Outside, the night fell over Elysian Village, but within the little home, it was nothing but warmth and love.

Harold leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on a cloth after finishing his stew. He glanced at the eager faces of his children, all of them waiting for him to continue the tale. Clearing his throat dramatically, he began.

"Ah, this was long ago, mind you," Harold started, his eyes twinkling with nostalgia. "I wasn’t much older than you, Liam—maybe fifteen or sixteen at most. Old Mr. Hemley—he was the one who lived just past the creek, remember? Always had a sour look on his face but had the kindest heart if you knew him well enough."

Michael tilted his head. “The grumpy one who used to give us apples?”

Harold chuckled. “The very same. Anyway, Mr. Hemley had this goat—an ornery old thing named Clover. She had a habit of wandering off, but one day, she disappeared entirely. Hemley was beside himself. ‘Harold,’ he said, ‘you’re young and strong, help me find that goat before she gets eaten by wolves!’”

Rosette gasped, her eyes wide. “Wolves? Were there really wolves, Papa?”

Harold nodded solemnly. “Oh, there were, Rosie. Ridge Forest back then wasn’t as safe as it is now. But Hemley was so desperate, I couldn’t say no. So, off we went—Hemley with his walking stick and me with nothing but my wits and a lantern.”

“Not even a weapon?” Liam asked, looking skeptical.

“Nope, not a thing,” Harold said, leaning forward for effect. “We searched high and low, calling for Clover. We checked the creek, the fields, even the little caves by the ridge. Nothing. It was like she’d vanished into thin air.”

Mary, who had been quietly listening, asked, “So, where was she?”

“Well,” Harold said, lowering his voice, “as night fell, we heard this strange noise—a kind of bleating, but faint, like it was coming from deep within the forest. Hemley’s face went pale, but he gripped his stick and said, ‘We’re going in.’ And so we did.”

The kids leaned closer, their eyes wide.

“It was dark,” Harold continued, “the kind of dark where even the trees seem to move. The sound got louder, leading us to this thick patch of undergrowth. And there she was—Clover, tangled up in vines and bleating like her life depended on it. But—” he paused dramatically, “as we moved closer, there was a rustling sound behind us. Something big.”

Rosette clutched Michael’s arm. “What was it?”

Harold smiled slyly. “We didn’t stick around to find out. Hemley yelled, ‘Grab the goat!’ So, I freed Clover as fast as I could, and we ran like the wind—me dragging that stubborn goat, and Hemley shouting all the way. Whatever was out there didn’t follow us, but I’ll tell you this—I never ran so fast in my life.”

The kids burst into laughter, the tension breaking.

“And that,” Harold concluded, sitting back with a grin, “is how I saved Clover and became Hemley’s favorite lad in the village.”

“Did you ever find out what was in the forest?” Mary asked, her tone curious.

Harold shook his head. “Never did. But I reckon it was just a wild animal, nothing more. Sometimes, it’s better not to know, eh?”

The children all laughed and teased Harold about his bravery—or lack thereof—while Carol smiled, shaking her head fondly. The little house once again filled with warmth and laughter, a comforting balm against the mysteries lurking in the woods.

Liam, always one for dramatics, leaned forward in his chair, eyes wide with mischief. “So let me get this straight,” he began, his voice rising in pitch as he started to act out the scene. “Old Mr. Hemley was running through the forest, holding his stick, screaming at the top of his lungs?”

Harold raised an eyebrow, already seeing where this was going. “That’s right, lad. Hemley was scared out of his wits. He wasn’t as spry as he used to be, so when the noise started coming from the forest—he was less brave and more... panicked.”

Liam stood up, jumping around like a wild animal. “So Hemley’s running like this—” He wiggled his body in exaggerated jerks, mimicking the frantic pace. “—and he’s holding that old stick, shouting ‘Get back, you beasts!’” He raised his voice, imitating Hemley’s high-pitched, startled yell. “And with every step, he’s nearly tripping over his boots! His stick’s all wobbly, and he’s looking left and right like there’s wolves at every turn!”

The whole table erupted in laughter, with Rosette clutching her stomach and Michael giggling so hard, he could hardly breathe. Carol covered her face with her hand, trying not to laugh too loudly. Even Harold couldn’t keep a straight face as he watched Liam act out the scene with perfect enthusiasm.

“And then, when he sees me struggling with the goat, he screams even louder, like he’s calling for help!” Liam continued, getting into the character. He mimicked Hemley’s voice, adding a little quiver. “‘Help me, Harold! I’m too old for this!’” He wobbled around, clutching an invisible stick and moving in circles as if dodging the forest’s dangers.

“Stop, stop!” Harold laughed, shaking his head. “You’re making him sound like a madman, Liam! That’s not how it happened at all.”

“Oh, come on, Papa! It’s what I imagined! You said he was scared out of his wits, so he must’ve looked like this!” Liam threw his arms wide, spinning around with his stick in hand.

Everyone at the table laughed even harder, and even Carol was wiping tears from her eyes from the fit of giggles. Harold finally stopped chuckling, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Maybe Hemley wasn’t exactly graceful, but he got the job done.”

Liam grinned widely, pleased with his performance. “I just can’t picture the grumpy old man running like that. Maybe he should’ve just used his stick to whack the beast, eh?”

“Oh, trust me, he tried,” Harold said, wiping a tear of laughter from his own eye. “But his ‘whacks’ didn’t exactly do much.”

Mary leaned in, still laughing. “Well, Papa, you said you were faster than Hemley. Did you catch the goat while he was busy screaming?”

Harold raised an eyebrow. “I sure did. It took me half the time to get Clover untangled and ready to go while Hemley was still stumbling around. But you know, we all have our moments.”

Liam nodded sagely, his grin still wide. “And if Hemley ever gets lost again, I’ll know what to do. Just give him a stick, and he’ll start running in circles!”

The whole family erupted in laughter once again, the room filled with the warmth of the evening and the joy of shared stories and moments of levity.

After the hearty meal, Carol stood up, gathering the leftovers with a smile. The aroma of the rabbit stew and grilled fish still lingered in the air as she packed some of it into a wooden basket. "Dear," she said, turning to Harold, who was still busy at the table, weaving straws, "can you pass this to Poppy? She gave us such a nice meal yesterday."

Harold paused, looking up at Carol with a soft smile. He placed his work aside and walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her gently. His hands rested on her growing belly, feeling the warmth of their child inside. "Sure, darling," he said, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. "How's your day today?"

Carol smiled, her eyes softening with affection. "I'm alright," she said, a small chuckle escaping her. "Poppy helped me out a lot today. She stayed with me until lunch before heading back home. She's done more than her share, you know."

Harold raised an eyebrow, a playful pout forming on his lips. "Hmm, you sided a lot with Poppy this time, huh?" He leaned back against the table, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Carol giggled, the sound light and melodic. "Oh, Harold," she teased, "Poppy’s been a big help. She did the washing and even kept me company while you were out. You can’t deny she’s been a good sister to me." She handed him the basket filled with the leftover stew and fish, her hands lingering on his for a moment. "Come on, it'll be a lot darker later. We don’t want to keep Poppy waiting."

Harold nodded, still grinning. "Alright, alright, I’ll make sure she gets it," he said, taking the basket carefully. "But you know, I’ll still be your first priority, dear." He waggled his eyebrows, teasing her as he turned toward the door.

Carol chuckled, shaking her head, but there was a warmth in her gaze as she watched Harold leave. She leaned back against the table, her thoughts drifting to the evening ahead and the growing life they had together. It was quiet moments like this—simple and filled with affection—that reminded her of how much they’d built in this little home.

Harold stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against his face. The sky was slowly turning to dusk as he made his way toward Poppy’s house, carrying the basket in his hands. As he walked, he couldn’t help but smile, thinking of how much Poppy’s help had meant to Carol, and how lucky he was to have such a strong, loving family.