The little room was quiet and still, filled only with the soft patter of snow against the window. Sylvie sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor, hugging Papa's oversized shirt tight around her tiny four-year-old body. The fabric was so big it swallowed her completely—the sleeves flopped over her hands like floppy puppy ears, and the hem dragged behind her like a fluffy cape whenever she moved. But she loved it more than anything. It smelled like him: warm earth, steel, and that faint smoky scent from the wilds. She buried her face deep into the collar, closed her eyes, and breathed in slowly, letting out a tiny, contented sigh. Papa's shirt… best blanket ever, she thought with a giggle.
He wasn't here right now… but the shirt made it feel like he was, wrapping her up in a big, invisible hug.
Her big round eyes drifted to the door again. It stayed stubbornly closed. She didn't mind. He had promised he would come back, and Papa always kept his promises.
So she waited, patient as a little bunny in its burrow, knees tucked under the shirt like a nest. To pass the time, she wiggled her toes and made silly faces at her reflection in a shiny spoon on the floor, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes until she burst into soft laughter.
Then, feeling extra playful, she started stacking a few loose buttons she found on the floor into a wobbly tower, pretending it was a castle for tiny fairies. "Don't fall, castle! He will save you if you do," she whispered, poking it gently before it toppled over, making her clap her hands in delight at the silly crash.
The charcoal stick tickled her fingers and left happy black smudges all over them, turning her little hands into inky paws.
Sylvie scrunched her face in concentration, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth like a determined kitten.
Scratch… scratch… scratch. She was drawing Papa again—because drawing him made the waiting feel shorter and more fun.
First came the mask: big, round, with the long snout that always made her giggle. She made it extra, extra big this time, almost taking up the whole page.
Then, with careful little strokes, she added a tiny Sylvie standing right beside him.
She drew herself super small, barely reaching his knee, with her curly hair in pigtails and a big smile. For extra cuteness, she added a flower in her hand, picking it for… Papa, she thought proudly.
She tilted her head, studied it, then gave the paper two proud little taps. "Yes," she whispered happily.
It looked perfect. Just like them. She hugged the drawing gently to her chest, as if it might fly away, and glanced at the door once more.
Her smile wobbled just a tiny bit, but she shook it off by pretending the drawing was talking back. "Big mask says, 'Good job, Sylvie!'" she voiced in a deep, pretend-growly tone, then dissolved into giggles.
Her tummy gave a soft, grumpy rumble. Sylvie looked over at the table where Papa had left a fresh loaf of bread—golden and soft, just for her.
He always left food. Always. She climbed onto the chair on tiptoes, wobbling a little before catching herself with a determined huff. "Strong like him," she told herself with a nod.
She tore off the tiniest piece—barely bigger than her thumb—and popped it into her mouth, chewing very slowly so it would last longer, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's.
The rest of the bread she carefully pushed back to the center of the table. "For him," she whispered. "He works hard. He needs it more. And maybe we can share it like a picnic!" She clapped her hands at the idea, imagining them sitting together with crumbs everywhere.
Satisfied, she climbed down and padded straight to the door. She plopped down right against it, pressing her cheek to the cool wood so she could hear him the second he arrived. Waiting was much easier here. To make it even more fun, she started humming a little made-up song: "Boar man, boar man, coming home, with big steps and a mask so fun!"
Then—footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. Familiar.
Sylvie's eyes flew wide open like twin moons. She scrambled to her feet so fast she nearly toppled over, steadying herself with a tiny squeak. The door creaked open, letting in a swirl of cold night air… and him.
He stood there, tall and quiet, snow dusting the shoulders of his cloak, the boar mask still in place. For a heartbeat neither of them moved. Then Sylvie's little feet pattered across the floor like excited raindrops.
She crashed into his leg with all her might, wrapping her arms around it as tightly as she could. "You came back!" she squeaked, voice muffled against his trousers. He was cold from the night, but he was here. Solid. Safe. Hers. She looked up at him with her big eyes sparkling. "I missed you lots and lots!"
Papa's big hand came down slowly, gently resting on top of her head. He patted once… twice… warm and careful, like he was afraid she might break.
Sylvie's whole face lit up with the brightest smile in the world, and she nuzzled closer, rubbing her cheek against his knee like a happy kitten.
Suddenly she gasped, pulled away in a whirl of oversized shirt, and darted off. Papa stood perfectly still, waiting. Seconds later she came racing back, clutching the drawing in both hands like the most precious treasure.
She stretched up on her very tiptoes, lifting it as high as her little arms could reach.
"For you!" she beamed, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling. "See? It's us! Big you and little me!"
Papa took the paper carefully between two fingers, as if it were made of butterfly wings.
He looked at the giant boar mask and the tiny Sylvie standing proudly beside it. His thumb brushed the tiny figure beside the mask. A long, quiet moment passed. Then he gave one slow, solemn nod.
Sylvie's smile grew so wide it showed every single one of her tiny teeth. She let out the happiest little squeal and flung herself at him again, hugging his leg even tighter than before, burying her face in the fabric like she could melt right into him. "Don't go away again too soon, okay? We can play games and eat bread together!" she whispered, her voice full of bubbly joy.
Papa didn't speak. He simply rested his hand on her head once more, thumb brushing softly over her curly hair. She reached up and patted his hand back, her tiny fingers wrapping around one of his like a promise.
And in that warm, quiet room, with snow falling softly outside and the oversized shirt wrapped around them both, Sylvie felt the happiest she had ever been.
She was warm.
For the first time since that night, his hands didn't feel like weapons.
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An
So did you guys like this chapter? or was it too cutesi for yah.
real question tho, do you like the longer chapters where there 4-5k or the shorter ones where I post 2-3 of 1-2k worded chapters?
I personally think both shine in there own way but lmk how yall feel.
cya