The crackling of the fire and the slow, steady rain are the only sounds I heard, while I was waiting for my mother to come back. Noon had come and gone. I didn’t realize I was still clutching my apron until my fingers began to ache. The fire in the oven burned low, casting long, restless shadows across the wooden shelves. I stared at the envelope on the counter—dark wax, unbroken. It hadn’t moved, but it felt heavier somehow. Like it was watching me.

  I should have boiled water, or swept the floor, or written down old Dina’s request for more cough elixir. But I didn’t. I just sat there, waiting for the door to open again. For my mother’s voice. For something.

  But nothing came.

  ?

  I must have dozed off. I woke to the sound of wind pressing against the shutters. The rain had worsened again, drumming now with urgency. Outside, the sky had grown darker than it had any right to be.

  I rubbed my eyes and stood, stretching my arms with a creak. The envelope was still there. So was the coin and the sack with money. I hated the way they sat there—silent, expectant, like they knew more than I did. I didn’t open them. I wasn’t ready. And it was no message for me after all. Instead, I lit the small lantern above the counter and turned to the window.

  No sign of her.

  My stomach twisted. It wasn’t like my mother used to be this late. She never let storms catch her, not since the year the floodwaters rose past the orchard and carried off half the village’s hens.

  I pressed my forehead to the cool glass.

  Something felt wrong.

  ?

  Evening crept in without fanfare. No golden light. No soft pinks. Just grayer. More rain. The village was near silent. No carts. No voices. Only the wind.

  I brought the bundle of bread and cheese Dina had given me to the back table and tried to eat, but it turned to paste in my mouth. I chewed slowly, staring at the fire.

  When I couldn’t stand the waiting anymore, I grabbed my mother’s second cloak from its hook, pulled the hood over my head, and stepped outside.

  The air was cold. Not spring-cold, not the kind that promised buds and blossoms. This was the chill of stillness. Of something holding its breath.

  I didn’t go far. Just to the edge of the woods.

  The trees stood like sentinels, unmoving. The path she usually took had turned to mud. I thought about calling out. But my voice caught in my throat. What if something else answered?

  My fingers curled tighter around the cloak.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  A movement.

  I froze.

  For one breathless moment, I thought I saw someone beyond the trees. Just at the edge of the mist. A pale shape. Tall. Still.

  But when I blinked — gone.

  I backed away, slow, careful, until the house was at my back. I didn’t look away from the woods until I was inside, the door bolted behind me.

  ?

  That night, I didn’t sleep.

  I kept the fire alive and sat curled in my mother’s chair, wrapped in her cloak, watching the envelope and the window by turns. Every creak of wood made me jump. Every gust of wind sounded like footsteps.

  She didn’t return.

  I told myself it was just the storm. That maybe she’d found shelter with the foragers east of the ridge. That maybe she was already curled up beside a fire, safe, waiting for the rain to pass.

  But deep down, I knew.

  Something had changed.

  And I was afraid the story I’d stepped into was no longer just my mother’s.

  It was mine.

  ?

  The morning came slow and colorless. Fog clung to the rooftops, heavy and unmoving. I hadn’t changed clothes. My eyes burned. But I rose with the cold and began preparing the shop for a day that felt like it shouldn’t exist. At least it wasn't raining anymore-.

  The storm had left puddles at the doorway, and I spent the first hour sweeping water back outside and drying the worn floorboards. I tried to act normal. Tried to pretend it was just another day. But I kept glancing at the woods.

  By midmorning, I heard footsteps.

  I ran to the door and pulled it open, breath catching in my throat.

  It wasn’t my mother.

  It was Elder Harwin, the village elder, walking with his staff, the folds of his cloak soaked and dragging through the mud.

  "Lina," he said, surprised. "I expected to find your mother."

  I shook my head, suddenly afraid to speak. He must have seen something in my face, because he stepped inside without asking, wiping his boots and placing a hand gently on my shoulder.

  "How long has she been gone?"

  "Since yesterday morning," I said, voice small.

  His brows furrowed. "Did she say where she was going?"

  I shook my head again. "She never does."

  He looked at the fire, then at the counter. His eyes fell on the envelope and the sack.

  He didn’t ask. He just nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself.

  "Let me send word to the foragers. Perhaps she did find shelter. Don’t worry just yet."

  But he didn’t sound convinced.

  He left shortly after, promising to return by dusk.

  ?

  I sat on the stool by the door, fingers tracing the edge of the sealed envelope. What was in it? Instructions? Secrets? A farewell?

  I stared so long I thought about opening it.

  But I didn’t.

  Not yet.

  Instead, I went to the bookshelf behind my mother’s desk and took out the old ledger. The one she used to track herbs, orders, names.

  Flipping through, I stopped on a page near the end.

  A sketch. A map. Rough. Inked in her fast, careful hand. Not labeled, just landmarks and trails. One of them led deep into the woods. Past the common foraging paths.

  Past the usual.

  There, marked with a small ?, was something written in tiny script: Moon Hollow.

  I had never heard of it. But Mama had drawn it.

  And somehow, I knew that’s where she had gone.

  ?

  The hours that followed dragged like cold tar. I swept the floors again, re-labeled a few jars that didn’t need it, and made a pot of tea I barely touched. The silence had taken root.

  When the bell above the door finally rang, I nearly spilled the entire pot. But it was only Brenna, the miller’s wife, bringing news and some food for me. No one had seen Mama. No forager. No hunter. No one.

  Elder Harwin didn’t come back by dusk.

  When night returned, the wind howled through the village like a warning. I curled up with Mama’s cloak again, this time in my own bed, and stared at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come.

  And I knew, tomorrow, I’d have to choose.

  Wait longer.

  Or follow the map to Moon Hollow.