Holding Summer

In the quiet days that followed the traders’ departure, the girl was never without the small pouch of sun-coloured seeds. She carried it in the fold of her tunic, a constant, weighty presence against her skin, and at night, she slept with it cupped in her palm. Nyra watched the gentle, ceaseless way the girl’s fingers traced the worn fabric of the pouch, a wordless conversation between the child and the future she held, a future that was still just a whisper in the wind, but one that felt more real, more tangible, than the snow that still blanketed the world outside.

Nyra’s touch was light on the girl’s shoulder, a wordless suggestion that drew her eyes. Together, they found a small earthen bowl, its surface smooth and cool, and chose a place for it on the high shelf near the hearth. The air there was dry and still, warm and sheltered, where the frost that crept along the windowpanes could never reach. The girl tipped the pouch, and the seeds made a soft, rattling sound as they tumbled into their temporary home, a collection of tiny, golden promises in the dim light. She lingered for a moment, her hand hovering over the bowl, a quiet reluctance to leave this small, tangible piece of a season she had only ever imagined.

As the days wore on, the girl made a small daily ritual of visiting the bowl each morning, her fingers hovering over the seeds as if to be certain they were still safe. The herb-gardener, whose name the girl did not yet know, noticed this and began to join her. Together they would stand before the dim hearth, their quiet company a space in which they began to imagine where, in the spring garden, such bright flowers might grow.

From across the room, Nyra saw the girl and the herb-gardener standing together before the bowl. A deep contentment settled over her. The seeds, she thought, were already at their work, a small, bright promise drawing two solitary figures together in the heart of the long winter, long before the first thaw or the turning of the soil.

The settlement moved through the last hard weeks of winter, and the small bowl of seeds on the shelf became a steadfast thing to hold to, a small and abiding hope against the grey cold. They sat in the dry dark, a whole summer folded inside them, waiting, as the daylight lengthened almost imperceptibly, stretching itself toward spring.