By Firelight

The fire crackled, a warm and living heart in the center of the small room. Outside, the wind still held the bitter memory of winter, but here, in the small circle of light cast by the flames, there was a tentative warmth that had nothing to do with the burning wood. The girl, her face softer now, the constant shadow of grief having receded from her eyes, sat watching the dance of the embers. A question had been forming in her mind for days, a small seed of curiosity that was finally ready to break through the soil of her silence. She looked from the hearth to the newcomer, her look steady and clear.

“When the garden wakes,” the girl began, her voice barely a whisper, “what will we plant? I remember the root vegetables, and the bitter greens that Nyra says keep the sea-sickness at bay. But my sister… she always wanted to plant flowers. Bright ones, she’d say, to make the grey days feel less grey.” She paused, a small, sad smile at the memory. “We never had the seeds. But I was wondering if maybe, this year, we could find some. Not for her, not really. But for the garden.”

The newcomer’s smile was a small, quiet thing, but it held a warmth that seemed to push back the evening’s chill. “We will,” she said, her voice a gentle counterpoint to the crackling fire. “We’ll ask Nyra if she knows where to find seeds, and if not, we’ll look for them ourselves when the traders come. I will show you how to plant them, and how to tend to them. It will be a gift, from us to the garden. And from the garden, back to us.”

From her place by the fire, Nyra looked up, her eyes soft in the flickering light. “The winter’s hold is loosening,” she said, her voice a low murmur, the words unhurried. “The year is coming round again. It is a good thing, to plant in company. What is sown together, grows twice as strong.”

The three of them sat quiet together then, the only sound the snap and hiss of the fire as the snow went on falling, deepening its soft cover over the sleeping garden. The girl watched the flames, her heart a little lighter now, carrying not only the weight of her grief but a small, bright seed of hope beside it, a promise she would hold through the last of the cold until the ground itself was ready to take it.