Maeve
Rowan and I walked in silence along the trail that led from the house to the old village. Small log cabins were scattered through the woods, their chimneys puffing smoke that hung in the air, mingling with the falling snow.
If Dad had known I was going out for a walk with Rowan, he would’ve stopped me, making me lay down and continue to listen to everyone arguing over my condition. But I felt better in the fresh air, our slow, easy walk alleviating my stress.
“I remember feeling stuck for a long time,” Rowan said as we crunched through the stone, his voice a low whisper. “Funny how you fall into a routine for so long that time feels endless, do you know what I mean? And then one thing changes and everything is upended.”
I considered his words, breathing deeply. The air was rich
