The wind never came back that day.It was like the sky forgot it was supposed to move.

The air just sat there, warm and stuck, like Mira’s breath when she wakes me up.

Mira hummed beside me while we walked home. She was making up a song again, it didn’t have real words, just little sounds that went up and down like skipping stones. The bucket between us splashed with every step, and she kept swinging it too hard, getting water all over her dress.

“Stop bouncing,” I said, trying not to smile.

“I’m not,” she said. She was.

When we got home, Mama was still by the hearth, sleeves pushed up past her elbows. The table was covered in bowls with cloth over them, and I could see the shapes of dough rising underneath, like sleeping bellies under blankets.

“You two took your time,” Mama said without turning. “The stew’s nearly cold.”

“The water spilled,” I said.

Mira laughed. “She spilled it.”

“I didn’t.”

Mama smiled. She didn’t believe either of us. “No matter. There’s still enough for the night.”

She pressed her hands into the dough, and it made a soft sound, like a breath. Even inside, the quiet was sticky. It sat on the walls and the floor and the fire, like dust.

                                                                                             *** Mama likes baking day.
Not because she loves kneading or flour in her sleeves. I think it’s because it’s loud.

On baking day, the village comes to life. Everyone brings their dough to the big oven in the square, the one made from old rocks that always looks a little crooked. It coughs when it gets hot, like an old man clearing his throat.

People bring baskets wrapped in cloth. They wait and talk and laugh and sneak pinches of raw dough when they think nobody sees. Mira always does, even when someone does see.

Mama hums while she works. Not a real song, just a little tune. I always sit near the window and try to guess when the smell of bread will reach our house.

I like that part best.
It makes the air feel warm, like the sky’s smiling.

                                                                                             *** When the sun started sinking, Mama gave me the bucket again.

“Fill it one more time before dark,” she said. “Tomorrow will be busy.”

I didn’t mind. The evening felt cooler, with a little bit of chimney smoke in the air. It made the road smell sleepy.

Twelve steps to the gate. Eighteen to the square. I wasn’t counting on purpose. The numbers just showed up.

A shutter creaked somewhere. A lantern flickered. The sky was turning navy-blue, the way it does before it goes full night.

By the time I got to the village center, both moons were up. The silver one was low and round, and the blue one was shaped like a clipped fingernail. They looked closer than usual, like someone had pulled them down with strings.

I liked the moons. I always did. The stars, too. I knew where most of them lived in the sky. But tonight, they looked wrong, like they were standing in the wrong places, like people who forgot where they were supposed to sit at the table.

Two men were at the well; Ronan and Eldric. Ronan’s shoulders were like wagon wheels, and Eldric had stringy hair tied back with something that looked like an old sock.

“Well, if it isn’t little Asbeel,” Ronan said. “Fetching water again? You’ll wear a path in the road.”

“Mama says we need more for baking,” I said.

“Of course she does,” said Eldric. He sighed like he was tired, but I could tell he wasn’t. “Only reason any of us survive, that woman’s bread.”

Ronan chuckled. “She could feed the whole Empire if she felt like it.”

“She’d start with you,” Eldric said. “And end with the well.”

“Keep flapping your mouth,” Ronan said, “and I’ll toss you in the well.”

They laughed, but it felt too loud for the quiet around us.

I lowered the bucket. The rope creaked. Even the frogs had stopped their noises.

Ronan looked up. “Strange light tonight. Never seen the moons sit that close.”

“Maybe it’s lucky,” Eldric said.

“Or maybe it’s not.”

The water shimmered when the bucket touched it. The moons bent in the reflection, squished into one shape.

I pulled it back up, careful not to spill.

“Sleep early, girl,” Ronan said as I started walking. “Sky’s changing faster than it should.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to know what he meant.

                                                                                             *** The house smelled like bread and stew and home. It felt full.

Mira was already at the table, kicking her feet and trying to whistle between bites.

“Did you hear the men talking?” I asked, setting down the bucket. “They said the moons look strange.”

Mama didn’t look up. “Men always say things when they’re tired.”

“But it feels weird outside.”

She paused, just for a second. Then said, “The world feels strange to people who think too much. Eat.”

She didn’t sound mad. Just like someone who’s already said the same thing a hundred times.

Dinner was bread and stew. We always had that on baking days.

“Do you think the moons are friends?” Mira asked, chewing.

Mama laughed. “Friends?”

“Yeah. They’re always together.”

“Maybe they are.”

I didn’t laugh.
The moons didn’t feel like friends tonight.
They felt like eyes. Eyes that were watching too hard and forgetting to blink.

                                                                                             *** After dinner, Mama tucked Mira in and hummed the lullaby she always did. I didn’t know the words. I don’t think there were any.

I sat by the window. The moons hung low, and the stars looked flickery, like candles in the wrong kind of wind. A dog barked in the distance, once, then again. Then nothing.

And then I heard the hum again. Quiet, like something breathing far underground.

I pressed my hand against the window. I thought maybe I’d feel it in the glass.

But there was nothing. Just cold.

“Bedtime,” Mama called from the other room.

“I know.”

“Don’t stay up staring. You’ll dream of strange things.”

“I’ll sleep soon, Mama.”

                                                                                             ***

My room is small, but I like it.
It has my things.

The walls are wood with bumpy knots that sometimes look like tiny eyes if the moonlight hits them right. Above the window hangs a bundle of dried flowers. I didn’t mean to sort them by color and size. It just happened that way.

My desk has a box with feathers and stones and shiny things I’ve found. Next to it is a paper with numbers from one of Mama’s books. The ink smudged when it rained through the window once, but I kept it.

There’s a puzzle on the desk too. It’s made of carved pieces with tiny marks I scratched into the corners, so I know which ones go where. I still haven’t finished it.

My thinking candle’s almost burned out.

Under the bed is my book of sky stories. Mages, moons, glowing stars. I don’t believe all of it. But I like the way it sounds.

I brushed a piece of hair out of my eye. It came back again, because it always does.

I lay on my bed and looked at the ceiling. The wood lines made shapes, crooked ones. I traced them with my eyes. Three. Five. Eight.

Numbers made sense.
They always stayed where they were supposed to.

Outside, the wind still hadn’t come back.
And way, way down below the floorboards, I thought I heard something breathe.