(Euryale's POV)
Sometimes, I wake up just before the sun.
The world feels quiet then, like everyone is still asleep, except for the birds, who always start chirping too early, like they can't wait to tell their secrets to the morning. The house creaks softly as it settles. The smell of dew drifts in through the open window, mixing with the faint scent of herbs from the kitchen. The wind hums through the trees, carrying the faint salt of the river beyond. These things feel like old friends now—steady, patient, familiar.
I stretch, yawn, and slide off the bed without waking Silas. He's tangled in the blanket again, one arm flopped over the edge, snoring softly, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I watch him for a moment, and for a brief second, I remember that I'm lucky. Lucky to be here, lucky to have them all.
I pad barefoot to the porch. Mom is rocking slowly, already awake, a warm cup of tea in her hands. Her belly is rounder now, the baby stretching inside like it has something urgent to say. She smiles when she sees me.
"You're up early," she says, her voice soft, still carrying the rasp of sleep.
"So are you," I reply, climbing into her lap despite getting a little big for it. She chuckles at that, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
"I can't sleep as well these days," she sighs. "The baby is a kicker."
"Maybe they're practicing kung fu in there," I tease.
She laughs, the sound warm, familiar, comforting. "That's quite likely," she murmurs, stroking my hair gently.
Pa returns later that morning, carrying a basket of herbs, fresh bread, and supplies from the market. He smells like smoke and river water, with that faint, comforting scent of worn leather. Silas and I rush to meet him, squealing and hopping like little animals.
He bends, picking us both up at once, groaning exaggeratedly. "You two are getting heavier every day," he says with a grin.
"Maybe you're getting weak," I tease.
He laughs loudly, ruffling our hair before setting us down. "Weak? Never. But you two? You're a handful, that's for sure."
Every day with Pa feels like a story waiting to be told. One afternoon, he takes us up to the hill by the river and shows us how to whistle using blades of grass. "The trick," he says, "is patience. And practice. And a little bit of stubbornness." Silas frowns seriously as he blows, and I try too, my whistle squeaking like a mouse. Pa just laughs, holding his hands over his belly and shaking his head.
Another day, he lets us help mend a fishing net. He tells the story of the time he caught a fish bigger than the boat, pausing dramatically, eyes wide, and making Silas gasp. "And it fought like the river itself," he adds. Silas insists it's a lie. I pretend not to notice that Pa's eyes sparkle in amusement, hiding the truth.
Evenings are the best. Silas and I run through the fields as the sun dips behind the hills, painting the sky gold and pink. We chase each other, shouting, laughing, rolling down the grass until we're dizzy and out of breath. Pa often joins in, pretending to chase us with exaggerated steps. "You'll tire out before me," he warns, though he's smiling through it all.
Mom waits on the porch sometimes, humming while she sews, watching us with a softness I can't name. When I pick a tiny wildflower, I run to her.
"For you," I say, offering it with both hands.
Her eyes widen. "Thank you, sweetheart," she says, taking it carefully. "You know… you've grown into someone wonderful."
"I thought I was just having fun," I reply.
She shakes her head gently. "Fun is what makes you… you."
Silas runs over, wearing his "Little Wind" cape, insisting he saved me from an invisible monster. I laugh and ruffle his hair. "I'll have to thank you properly later."
Days blend together like honey, sweet and slow. I notice Mom gets tired more often now. Her feet swell, and she sits more. I fetch her water, draw silly pictures of babies with wobbly heads, or just hold her hand in silence while she hums. Sometimes, I fall asleep beside her as she works, her gentle hand stroking my hair. I feel as though I've always belonged here, and that I was meant to.
At night, long after Silas has drifted off to sleep, I lie awake a little longer. I listen to his quiet breathing, the rustle of leaves, the whispering wind. I think about the baby growing in Mom's belly. Will they be loud like Silas, Or quiet like me? Will they like frogs or stars or dirt or puddles? I don't know yet.
But I do know one thing. I'll protect them. I'll make them laugh. I'll share my snacks, carry them on my shoulders when they tire, and read them stories even if the words aren't perfect.
I'll be the best big brother I can be.
The next afternoon, a few village kids come by to play. We race sticks down the river, build forts from fallen branches, and chase each other through the tall grass. I win a game of tag and collapse laughing into the sun-warmed earth, Silas tumbling beside me.
Mom watches from the porch, smiling. "You've really come into your own," she says quietly to Pa.
"He's not so quiet anymore," Pa replies, nodding. "Feels like we've had him forever."
I smile at that, pretending not to hear.
The baby's due soon. Everything slows down. Meals are savored. Evenings stretch long and golden. Pa's hands are rough but gentle as he steadies Mom as she moves through the house. Silas invents ridiculous names for the baby—"Moss Potato" being the worst—and I suggest "Star." Mom nods, smiling.
Every day feels like a warm memory already, written into the sun, the wind, the soil, and our hearts.
And for the first time, I think I understand what it means to belong completely—to be part of something larger, softer, and yet strong.
This is my life. My home. My family.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.