Uncle Trunde woke up at seven in the morning, the way he often did even when he didn’t need to. His body had a routine built into it. He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling for a second, and let his mind catch up to where he was.

The Mercers’ bedroom was quiet. Pale winter light slipped through the curtains and touched the edge of the wardrobe. The air was cool enough that the blanket felt necessary.

He turned his head and looked at his wife.

Vee was still asleep, curled slightly on her side, her hair spread across the pillow. Her face looked softer in sleep, the lines of worry less visible. Even then, there was a tension in her posture, like she had been carrying something heavy and hadn’t fully set it down.

Trunde’s chest warmed as he watched her. Love came easy for him, and it had stayed easy with her, even as their lives grew more complicated.

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her. The bed creaked once, then quieted. He swung his legs over the edge and rubbed his face with both hands, waking himself properly.

Work.

A friend’s wife needed help down by the St Ives pier. Something about a kitchen sink that wasn’t behaving right. It was the kind of job he didn’t mind. Simple, useful, and the sort of thing people remembered you for in a town like this.

He stood, stretched his back, then walked to the mirror.

Thirty-three.

He still felt young most days, but sometimes he caught himself standing in front of a mirror and wondering where the years had gone. His hair was still thick, and he kept it in a curtain style that made him look boyish if he didn’t think too hard about it. His face looked younger than it had any right to, which was funny, because his back sometimes acted like it belonged to someone older. He ran his fingers through his hair and smoothed it down. Then he washed up, the water cold enough to wake him fully. He shaved quickly, not perfectly, just clean enough, and brushed his teeth while half staring at his own reflection.

Then he dressed.

Basic flannel, red and blue, because that was his weird preference and he refused to apologise for it. Jeans that could handle work. Handyman boots for protection, solid and worn in the right places. He checked his tools, the familiar weight of them grounding him. He liked being the person who could fix things. It made him feel useful in a world where some things couldn’t be fixed at all.

Before leaving, he glanced again at the bed.

Vee was still asleep.

He stepped closer, sat on the edge of the mattress, and watched her for a moment. His thoughts drifted, as they often did when the house was quiet.

He remembered meeting her in college, back when they were both younger and sharper and living in a city that felt too big for them. He had fallen for her slowly at first, then all at once. She had always had a fire in her, even when she tried to hide it under calm words and practical decisions. Now they were here in his hometown of St Ives. A quieter life, a steadier life. A house near the sea. Vee’s paintings. His small repairs. And Sorianne; their adopted daughter.

Trunde’s chest tightened gently at that thought. He loved Sorianne like she was his own; not out of obligation nor because he had to but simply did. She had slipped into their life and become part of it so naturally that he couldn’t picture the house without her anymore.

Still, there was another thought he didn’t say out loud much.

They were trying to have a child of their own too. A simple, quiet desire that lived in him. The idea of a little one running around, making noise, bringing a different kind of chaos into the house. Sometimes he imagined a toddler holding a paintbrush like a sword. Sometimes he imagined Vee teaching them colours while he made breakfast.

He chuckled softly to himself.

He sounded old.

He leaned down and kissed Vee’s forehead gently.

She mumbled something in her sleep, words half-formed.

“Sori… mint… cake…”

Trunde smiled, holding back a laugh. Even in her sleep, she was still arguing with the idea of mint cake. He kissed her again, quick and warm, then stood and left the room quietly.

The hallway was cool and still. He moved carefully towards the stairs, boots in his hand so the sound wouldn’t carry. The house was quiet enough that he could hear the faint tick of the clock downstairs.

As he passed the sunroom, he noticed the door was slightly open.

He paused.

That wasn’t usual yet he nudged it wider and peeked inside.

The room was dim, curtains half drawn, morning light filtering in softly. The easel stood near the window, the unfinished painting still there, facing the sea like it belonged to the coastline itself. And on the sofa was Sorianne.

Still in her nightgown.

Her hair was loose, spilling over the cushion. Her face looked gentle in sleep, and there was something about her expression that made Trunde’s heart sink a little. She looked safe, yes. But she also looked unsure, even while sleeping, as if her mind hadn’t stopped moving.

Trunde stepped inside quietly.

He stood over her for a moment, debating whether to let her sleep. But it was already morning, and she shouldn’t wake up stiff and cold in the sunroom. He crouched beside her instead and touched her shoulder gently.

“Sori,” he said softly. “Wake up.”

Sorianne groaned, turning her face into one of the cushion pillow.

Trunde chuckled, warm and patient. “Come on. Up.”

She blinked slowly, eyes half open. Her green eyes looked darker when she was tired, but still clear.

“Uncle,” she mumbled, half smile, half annoyed.

“Good morning,” Trunde said, the smile in his voice obvious. “You’re sleeping in the sunroom like a stray cat.”

Sorianne’s brows pulled together. “I’m not a cat.”

“You are right now,” he replied, amused. “A very sleepy one.”

She pushed herself up slowly, hair falling into her face. She looked around as if trying to remember how she ended up here.

Trunde gave her a gentle nudge. “Go wash up. You’ll feel better.”

Sorianne made a sound that was almost a complaint, but she nodded anyway, obedient in the way she often was when she trusted someone. Trunde watched her sit there for a second longer. Her posture was a bit off. Her eyes were unfocused. There was a heaviness around her that wasn’t just sleep.

Of course there was.

Yesterday, Vee had told her about the Valynn family’s secret. About their legacy. About things that didn’t fit into a normal life. Trunde remembered the day Vee told him. He remembered sitting in their small flat back then, the way she looked like she expected him to leave her the moment the words left her mouth. He remembered how little sense it made and how much he didn’t care about sense, not when it came to loving her. He had chosen her. And choosing her meant choosing what came with her, even the parts that felt strange and too big.

He didn’t want to drag Sorianne into those thoughts right now.

So he softened his voice and shifted the moment.

“I’m heading out,” he said. “Got a job down by the pier. Kitchen sink. You know; the usual.”

Sorianne blinked and nodded. “Okay.”

“If you go to the pier later,” Trunde added, “I’ll be there. We can get ice cream.”

Sorianne’s mouth curved slightly. “Mint chocolate?”

Trunde made a face. “Yes, yes. Your toothpaste dessert.”

Sorianne let out a small laugh. It was quiet, but it was real.

“I’ll come,” she said.

“Good,” Trunde replied. “Have a nice day. And don’t stress your aunt too much.”

Sorianne nodded again, then slowly stood. “Thanks, Uncle.”

She headed out of the sunroom toward her bedroom, moving like her body was still catching up to morning.

Trunde watched her go, then looked once at the easel and the painting. He didn’t touch anything. He just stared at it, and the room felt strange in a way he couldn’t explain. Just a strange de-ja vu feeling is all.

He left the sunroom and went downstairs.

At the front door, he grabbed his truck keys from the small bowl on the table. The familiar jingle of metal felt like normal life again. As he stepped outside into the cold morning air, he took a breath and looked out toward the town. The sky was pale. The sea wind carried the smell of salt. The day looked ordinary.

He hoped Sorianne would be okay.

He hoped Vee could guide her the way she wanted to. Trunde could support, protect, comfort, make jokes, and offer ice cream. But Vee understood the weight of this in a way he never fully could.

He didn’t hate the magic. He didn’t fear it either.

It just felt odd sometimes, living in the same world as people who carried something that didn’t fit into the rules everyone else followed. Something special. Something that could be beautiful and dangerous in the same breath.

He climbed into his truck, started the engine, and pulled away from the house, heading toward the pier with tools in the back and a quiet wish in his chest.

That everything would stay safe.

That Sorianne would still get to be a teenager for a little longer, even with the world changing around her.