Chapter 2: Settling In

The morning air was cooler than I expected as I stepped off the barge and onto the dock, my satchel slung over one shoulder, my boots striking the damp boards with a sense of finality. I’d barely slept, lulled more by the rhythm of the river than any real rest, but excitement stirred beneath my weariness like the current beneath the hull.

A ferryman approached, his stride easy and confident, with the kind of weathered hands that spoke of steady labor and long days outdoors. He looked to be about my age, his sandy hair tousled beneath a wool cap, and though the morning chill clung to the air, his smile warmed the space between us. "You Elspeth Whitfield?"

"Yes," I said, straightening.

He nodded. "Your trunks are accounted for. They’ll be delivered to your bindery within the hour. Dockmaster's got them queued for a cart."

Relief unfurled in my chest. "Thank you. Could you point me in the right direction? I’m not sure which way to go."

"Green door just up the lane, about three buildings in from the chandler’s. Brass plaque still says Moonscribe’s. You’ll see it."

I offered a grateful smile. "I appreciate it."

He tipped his cap. "Welcome to Riverhaven."

Moonscribe’s Bindery sat just up from the dock along a quiet cobbled street lined with squat brick buildings. Morning mist clung to the rooftops, and the air smelled faintly of bread, river water, and the warming earth. I found the green-painted door exactly as described. A bit faded, but intact. A brass plaque still bore the name, though someone had scratched a lazy spiral into the corner years ago. I unlocked the door with the iron key still cold in my hand, and stepped over the threshold.

Inside was silence, layered with dust. The air held a faint scent of ink and beeswax polish, wrapped around something older, paper and time and a hint of dried herbs. Morning light spilled through the front windows, catching on dust motes suspended like silver threads.

The shop itself was more spacious than it appeared from the street. Low shelves formed tidy aisles in the middle of the floor, each holding stacks of empty journals and ledgers, their leather spines still smooth and unsold. A hand-lettered sign in spidery chalk script hung behind the front counter, listing prices for basic bindings, custom covers, and archival repairs. The writing had the look of someone meticulous, though the chalk had faded at the edges.

Behind the counter sat a second, smaller worktable, clearly used for less delicate repairs while keeping an eye on the shopfront. The surface held a few faded ink stains, a shallow box of offcuts, and a neatly arranged set of dull-edged knives. The presence of a stool tucked just beneath the table suggested the previous binder had spent long hours here—waiting, mending, observing.

Dust coated every surface, not heavily but enough to dull the sheen of wood and paper. Two months of stillness, maybe more. The front windows were grimy but intact, and I made a mental note that those, at least, I could clean myself. The morning light struggled through, illuminating the interior in a soft gold haze that felt somewhere between forgotten and waiting.

A narrow doorway led to the back room. Here, the space opened up again, a clear workroom filled with deeper shelving and larger tables. One wall held hooks for lanterns, and another boasted a massive window that overlooked the enclosed garden. Even smudged with grime, the glass let in generous light, ideal for delicate tasks. It was the kind of room meant for careful labor, the kind that asked for long hours and quiet focus.

This main workroom made up the bulk of the bindery’s footprint. The ceiling here rose higher than the front of the shop, a wide single-pitch roof creating an airy openness above. Only one corner of the room had an upper structure overhead, where the narrow stairs led up to the apartment nestled above. The apartment didn’t span the full breadth of the bindery below—more like a pocket tucked into the corner of a larger frame. The rest of the roof rose unbroken.

This workroom would be the best place for my trunks. There was space enough to stack them against one wall—two holding clothes and linens and other household needs, and the largest filled with my binding tools, press, and supplies. The stairs were too narrow and steep to manage such a weight. I could unpack them here slowly, sorting Henrik’s things as I went. The shelves still bore his tools and unfinished work, tucked neatly in trays and drawers labeled with that same precise handwriting.

I crossed to the stairwell and climbed carefully. The narrow steps creaked with age but held firm. The upstairs apartment opened into a small kitchen and sitting room, the curtains drawn and the air stale. A bedroom branched off to the side with a large bed beneath an arched window. It was simple but serviceable—big enough for two, though it hadn’t seen company in some time. The bed was bare of linens, as expected; any personal belongings were long gone. But the space felt solid, a place I could begin again.

Then, back downstairs. To one side of the workroom, a door with an old brass bolt stuck halfway open. I jiggled it loose and eased the door outward, blinking as light flooded in.

The garden was not what I expected.

A low brick wall surrounded it, ivy trailing over one side and an old broom propped in the corner. Half-barrels and raised beds lined the interior, their contents wild with early growth. Mint had taken over the closest planter, and thyme spilled from another. Vegetables strained through weeds, greens gone leggy, carrots pushing past their tops.

An apple tree stood in one corner, just beginning to leaf. Its branches arched over a stone bench that bore the unmistakable signature of birds. A few wind-chimes clinked from the eaves, tangled but musical in the breeze.

And there, stretched in a sun-warmed patch near the bench, lay a cat. Long and lean, with fur the color of ash and soot, it flicked one ear at me but did not move. Its eyes opened to slits of gold and closed again in dismissal. Clearly, I had been judged and found unremarkable.

I stepped out slowly, taking in the uneven flagstones, the scent of rosemary and damp earth. This space had been loved once. Maybe not recently, but thoroughly. A sanctuary tucked behind a shop, meant for pauses and quiet tea breaks, for herbs to hang and apples to fall and ink to dry on shaded benches. Everything needed work. The shop, the garden, even the silence between the walls. But as I stood with my hand on the flaking doorframe, my boots scuffing the mossy path, I felt something loosen in my chest. This was mine. Not perfect. Not ready. But full of possibility. And that, I thought, was more than enough for a beginning.

Just as I stepped back inside from the garden, a firm knock sounded at the front door. When I opened it, a porter stood beside a handcart stacked with my three trunks, their surfaces scuffed but intact. "Delivery from the docks," he said, wiping his brow. "Where would you like them?" I led him through the shop to the back workroom, pointing out a clear space near the wall. "Here is fine. One of them holds my tools—too heavy to manage on the stairs." He nodded and maneuvered the trunks into place with practiced ease. I thanked him, pressing a coin into his hand, and after a brief nod he left, the sound of the cart wheels fading into the street behind him.

The porter’s footsteps faded into the distance, the quiet creak of his cart wheels blending with the soft bustle of the street below. Left alone with the gentle settling sounds of the shop, I made my way up the narrow stairs to the apartment above—a small, self-contained space that felt like its own world within the building.

The sitting room greeted me first, bathed in soft sunlight filtering through slightly warped windowpanes. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, settling on the low shelves that lined the walls, still empty but arranged with care. The faint scent of dried herbs lingered faintly in the air, a reminder of the life once lived here.

Beyond the sitting room, the kitchen awaited, modest but functional. A sturdy wooden table stood near the window, its surface worn smooth from years of use. The shelves held a scattering of kitchen implements left behind—pots and pans, an iron trivet, and a pale-blue enamel kettle resting quietly on the stove’s hearth. The kettle’s familiar weight seemed to anchor the space, a quiet promise of comfort to come.

The bedroom was simple and unadorned. A plain pine bedframe sat beneath the sloping ceiling, its mattress firm and bare of linens. The room had been carefully cleared of personal belongings, yet the broom propped in the corner suggested someone had tended to the space with quiet care. The window looked out over the river, its glass softly distorting the view into gentle curves of shimmering water and spring greenery.

A full bath washroom completed the apartment, neat and tidy, with a porcelain sink and clawfoot tub gleaming faintly under the morning light. Though the space was empty, it held a subtle invitation to settle in, to make it home.

After a glance at the mantel clock that showed midday approaching, I knew it was time to prepare for the market. Still, before stepping out, I decided to check the garden behind the shop. If the earth had already begun to offer its gifts, I could save coin and gather what grew freely.

I descended the stairs and pushed open the door at the back of the workroom, stepping out onto a small covered stoop. A few shallow steps led down into the garden, where the scent of damp earth and last year’s leaves rose to meet me, cool and rich.

The garden was a quiet jumble of growth, overgrown but not wild. Weathered bricks outlined raised beds softened by moss and spring shoots. A worn wooden bench rested beneath a blossoming plum tree, its pale pink flowers trembling softly in the breeze. The fence enclosing the space leaned slightly, the slats warped but steadfast, enclosing this patch of green.

I crouched beside the nearest bed and brushed aside tangled clover and dried leaves to find bright green peppermint pushing through the soil, its glossy leaves catching the light. The sharp, clean scent rose immediately as I pinched off a few leaves and rubbed them between my fingers. Nearby, thyme’s woody branches bore tender new growth, while clusters of chive shoots peeked shyly from the earth near the shed’s shadow. In a quiet corner, a rosemary bush stood firm, its silver-green needles undeterred by neglect. Sorrel flourished near the fence, mingling its tart scent with the faint sweetness of emerging chamomile.

Even the weeds held a gentle presence here. Wild violets dotted the edges of the path, their purple petals tucked beneath broad leaves, and dandelions spread golden crowns without aggression. The garden felt alive in a way that was comforting and full of quiet promise.

Satisfied with my small harvest, I ran a hand along the rough wood of the bench and imagined afternoons spent here with a book and a warm cup of tea, surrounded by this tender green.

Back inside, I gathered my market preparations. I retrieved a sturdy woven basket from a corner shelf, its deep shape and backpack straps perfect for heavier purchases while leaving my hands free. Alongside it, I packed several lightweight cloth bags, ideal for carrying bread, eggs, and fragile herbs. Counting my modest coins, I ran through my mental list: cheese, fresh bread, eggs, loose leaf tea if I could find it, and perhaps a small treat if the sweets stall was open. Cloth to line the drawers and a few kitchen essentials would be important too.

The bell above the door jingled softly as I stepped outside, the garden’s scent lingering faintly on my sleeves. The morning sun had warmed the air, filling it with promise. My market bags felt ready and waiting to be filled. Turning toward the village street, I caught the river’s sparkle glinting between the cottages and set off on my walk, ready to gather what I would need for this new beginning.

The village square stretched wide beneath the gentle glow of early afternoon sunlight, a patchwork of worn cobblestones and weathered wooden stalls arranged organically around the mossy stone fountain at its center. Canvas awnings fluttered softly overhead, casting dappled shadows on baskets overflowing with vibrant produce, fragrant herbs, and freshly baked bread. The mingled scents of earth, yeast, and sugared almonds wove through the air, accompanied by the soft murmur of voices and the steady clink of coins.

Though I was new to this place, the market’s steady rhythm drew me deeper into its embrace. I moved slowly from stall to stall, letting the colors, scents, and gentle bustle wrap around me like a comforting shawl.

At one stall, I crouched to lift a basket of smooth eggs nestled in straw, their shells cool beneath my fingers. Wheels of creamy cheese and jugs of fresh milk rested nearby, cradled in enchanted crates softly glowing with protective runes that kept their contents fresh despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.

The woman tending the stall looked up and met my gaze with a steady kindness. She was half-orc, her broad shoulders wrapped in a handwoven shawl and her dark green skin dappled with faint freckles. A streak of grey ran through her tightly coiled hair.

“Good afternoon,” I said, voice soft but clear. “I’m Elspeth. I’ve just arrived in the village and am settling into the bindery.”

She smiled warmly, her tusks barely peeking out. “Welcome, Elspeth. I’m Lenna. I keep the dairy here—eggs, milk, and cheese all fresh and true. If you want the best goods, come early in the morning. Traders bring fresh stock before the sun climbs high.”

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I nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Lenna. I’ll be sure to come early.”

After selecting eggs, cheese, and milk, Lenna bundled my choices with practiced hands, wrapping them carefully in soft cloth and tying the bundle with twine. I counted out coins and handed them over, feeling a small thread of connection woven through our exchange. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Drawn by the warm, yeasty scent of baked bread, I approached a nearby bakery stall, where rows of crusty loaves, soft buns, and buttery scones rested on wooden shelves. A woman with flour-dusted hands and a bright smile was arranging her goods carefully. She was a dwarf—broad and sturdy, with chestnut hair braided tightly down her back and a dusting of flour clinging to her apron and forearms. Her cheeks were rosy from oven heat, and a small silver whisk charm hung from a chain around her neck.

“Good afternoon,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m Elspeth, new to the village and getting settled.”

She smiled back, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m Greta. The bread’s fresh from this morning’s bake, though cooled now. Come early for the softest buns, but these will keep you well.”

I selected a crusty loaf dusted with flour, a cluster of sweet buns, and a few golden scones. Greta wrapped them carefully in paper and tied the bundle with a sprig of lavender. “If you ever want something special baked, just ask.”

Grateful, I moved on to a vibrant stall bursting with fresh vegetables and ripe fruit. The man behind it wiped soil from his hands and nodded kindly. He was a dryad, his bark-toned skin lined faintly with green along the forearms, and a soft mossy texture clung to the edge of his collar.

“You must be new,” he said with a friendly smile. “I’m Joren.”

“I am,” I replied, meeting his steady gaze. “I’m Elspeth, settling into the bindery.”

Joren’s smile deepened. “The market’s busiest in the morning, when day-traders arrive with goods offloaded from the barges. That’s when the freshest and best deals appear.”

I selected crisp carrots, firm cabbage, and rosy apples, tucking them carefully into a cloth bag. “Thanks for the tip.”

He weighed my choices, and as coins changed hands, he said warmly, “Welcome to the village, Elspeth.”

The scent of smoked meats and fresh herbs drew me to the butcher’s stall, where a woman with sharp eyes arranged cuts on ice. Brida’s skin had the grey warmth of riverstone, and her hair was swept back in a thick braid streaked with silver. She wore a long butcher’s apron, and her arms, muscled and freckled, moved with precise strength.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Elspeth, new here and settling in.”

She nodded. “Brida. The market is the village’s heart. You’ll find its rhythm soon enough.”

I studied marbled pork chops with admiration and added them to my basket, but my eyes lingered on the hanging dried sausages and other cured meats nearby. “I’d also like some of these,” I said, pointing to the array of dried sausages and smoked cuts.

Brida smiled approvingly and carefully wrapped the chops, then selected a few links of dried sausage and other smoked meats, wrapping those with equal care.

“Patience and respect will see you through here,” she said as I handed over my coins.

Paying her, I felt a small welcome bloom in the quiet exchange.

At a grains stall piled high with oats, rice, and flour, I hesitated at the heavy sacks stacked one atop another. The woman tending the stall looked up as I approached. She was a gnome, her bright copper hair tied in a kerchief, her round spectacles slightly askew.

“I’m Elspeth,” I said, smiling with a hint of humor. “I just moved here and… well, I think I need one of everything.”

She laughed softly, eyes twinkling. “That’s quite the order.”

“I’m afraid I can’t carry it all,” I added, glancing at the sacks. “Is delivery an option?”

“Absolutely,” she replied warmly. “I’m Miri. For town folk, we do a small delivery fee. We usually bring the sacks to the back garden door at the bindery, just like we did for Henrik. If that works for you, we’ll send a cart this afternoon.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said with relief. “Thank you.”

Miri began gathering the sacks, her movements practiced and sure. “I’ll add the delivery fee to your total.”

I counted out the full payment for everything, grateful for the help. “I appreciate it.”

Miri smiled kindly. “It’s what neighbors do.”

Drawn by the scent of dried herbs and spices, I lingered at a stall lined with jars and sacks bursting with fragrant contents. The vendor, a tall elf with pale bark-brown skin and hair like wind-dried straw, carefully arranged small bottles of pepper, rosemary, and cinnamon.

“I’m new here,” I said, smiling shyly. “I just moved into the bindery, and I need a full starter set of spices for my kitchen.”

The man nodded in understanding. “I’m Idris. A proper foundation is important. I’ll prepare a set for you—everything you need—and deliver it straight to your bindery.”

Before I could reply, a gentle voice spoke nearby. “And some tea to go with those spices?”

I turned to see an elderly goblin man carefully wrapping tins of chamomile and mint. His eyes were kind and bright, his ears rounded and slightly bent at the tips with age.

“I’m Thaddeus,” he said softly. “Books and tea make a fine pair. Do you need some as well?”

“Yes, I do,” I said gratefully.

Thaddeus smiled, his hands steady despite their age. “I’ll see you right.”

Idris and Thaddeus exchanged a quiet nod of mutual respect as I paid for the spices and the promise of tea.

Finally, the sweet scent of sugared almonds and honey drew me to a cheerful woman who offered a paper cone and small pot. She was fox-kin, her russet hair braided with ribbons and a long tail flicking lightly behind her.

“I’m Elda,” she said brightly. “A sweet welcome for a new beginning.”

I accepted gratefully, warmth blooming despite the newness.

With my cloth bags full and basket heavy, I paused beside the mossy fountain. Each careful choice, every friendly word, and each exchanged coin wove me deeper into the village’s fabric. Slowly, surely, a new chapter was unfolding.

The weight of the bags and the basket was comforting as I made my way back toward the bindery. The village streets were quieter now, the afternoon sun casting long shadows between stone cottages and blossoming gardens. Soft birdsong mingled with the distant hum of voices, and the scent of earth and blooming flowers drifted on the breeze. With every step, the newness of the day softened into something gentler—something more like belonging.

Turning the corner, the bindery came into view. Its weathered façade was framed by the small garden that ran along one side. The wooden door, worn smooth by years of use, stood closed but inviting. I unlocked it with a soft click and stepped inside, the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath my feet greeting me like an old friend.

I set down the bags by the front door and let my gaze wander toward the garden door, which was visible through the window beside the stairwell. It stood quietly shut, framed by the gentle greenery of the yard beyond. Miri’s words came to mind—the delivery would come here, to this quiet back entrance. It seemed like the perfect way to come and go, sheltered from the street and close to the stairs leading up.

That thought settled warmly in my chest. I pictured myself using that door each day, stepping through the soft shade of leaves and away from the bustle of the village street. For now, the front door remained my official entrance, but already the garden door had found a place in my thoughts, promising a small peace amid change.

Turning back, I began unpacking the market goods carefully. I nestled the eggs into the cool cupboard, wrapped the cheeses and set them aside, and arranged the bread in a basket on the kitchen table. The promise of spices and tea filled the air with a quiet hope. Each item felt like a thread being woven into the fabric of this new life.

With the market goods neatly put away, I took a moment to breathe in the quiet stillness of the kitchen. The afternoon light softened through the window, casting gentle shadows on the worn floorboards. Dinner still needed a finishing touch—something fresh from the garden to lift the simple meal. Setting down the last package, I headed toward the stairs that led down to the small garden behind the bindery, eager to gather a few sprigs of thyme and rosemary before the evening settled in.

The back garden was quiet under the soft afternoon light, herbs brushing gently against the old stone path. As I stepped toward the thyme and rosemary to gather some fresh sprigs for dinner, a familiar sound caught my attention—a plaintive meow.

There, by the empty dishes set near the weathered bench, sat the village’s cat—the same shades of grey and black I’d seen earlier, its yellow eyes bright with silent insistence. It meowed again, rubbing softly against my leg as if reminding me of its patience.

Just beyond the cat lay a neat stack of packages: the delivery from Miri had arrived. Flour, oats, rice—all wrapped carefully—and beside them, Idris’s starter set of spices, the small bottles catching the light with promise.

Before I could bend to bring the packages inside, a cheerful voice called from the other side of the garden wall. “Hello there! I’m Mrs. Hedgewood, but please, call me Edith.”

I looked up to see an older woman leaning over the short brick wall that separated our gardens, her eyes warm and welcoming.

“You must be the new owner,” she said with a kind smile.

I returned the smile and nodded. “Yes, I’m Elspeth. Just getting settled.”

“Oh, I see you haven’t had time to feed our little friend yet,” she said, glancing at the cat and the empty dishes.

“Not yet,” I admitted, spreading my hands. “Just got the deliveries.”

“Hang on a moment, I’ll fetch something,” she said, stepping back.

I heard the soft closing of her door and quick footsteps, then moments later she returned carrying a small dish filled with fish scraps. Carefully, she passed the dish over the wall to me.

I took the dish, smiled, and poured the scraps into the cat’s bowl before returning the empty dish to her over the wall.

Edith chuckled softly. “That cat comes with the house, you know. She belonged to Henrik.”

I stroked the cat’s soft fur. “I didn’t know she came with the house, but I’ll take good care of her. Does she have a name?”

“Yes, she’s called Codex,” Edith said, a twinkle in her eye.

I laughed softly. “Of course Henrik would give his cat a bookish name.”

We giggled together, the warmth of shared understanding wrapping around us like a gentle cloak.

“She’s quite dignified,” I said, watching Codex eat with calm grace.

“Indeed,” Edith nodded. “We’ve all been taking turns feeding her since Henrik passed. She’s not exactly the village’s cat, but she’s ours in a way.”

Curious, Edith leaned closer over the wall. “So, Elspeth, where did you come from? And what made you choose this little village?”

I thought for a moment. “I’ve been a bookbinder for years. When the bindery became available here, it felt like the right place to start fresh, to build something of my own.”

“That’s wonderful,” Edith said warmly. “This village may be small, but it has its charms and a good heart. I’m sure you’ll find your place here soon enough.”

I glanced down at Codex, who was contentedly nibbling at her food. “I hope so. She’s already made me feel less alone.”

Edith smiled knowingly. “She’s a special one. And if you ever need anything—or if she causes any trouble—you know where to find me.”

I smiled back, feeling the gentle strength of new friendship budding between us.

Edith glanced toward the path leading back to the bindery. “Well, I won’t keep you. You have a lot to settle in and unpack.”

“Thank you, Edith. I really appreciate you stopping by,” I said sincerely.

“Anytime, dear. And don’t hesitate to ask if you need help with anything. Welcome to the village.”

With a final warm smile, Edith straightened and stepped back from the wall. I turned toward the bindery door, feeling a little less alone in this new place.

I gathered the packages carefully, feeling their reassuring weight once more. Slowly, I lifted the sacks of flour, oats, and rice, stacking them gently by the stairwell. The small bottles of spices nestled safely in their box, promising warmth and flavor to come. One by one, I began carrying the bags upstairs, each step echoing softly as I settled into the rhythm of this new home. The afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting soft patterns across the worn floorboards as I prepared to unpack and make the space truly mine.

The evening light filtered softly through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the worn wooden countertop and the faded linoleum floor beneath my feet. The kitchen was modest, but sturdy—plenty of room to work despite its size. I ran my fingers along the edge of the counter, feeling the familiar grain of the wood, smooth and worn from years of use. It was quiet here, the kind of quiet that promised rest after a long day.

The cupboards held plates stacked neatly, their edges chipped slightly but still serviceable. Utensils hung on hooks near the sink: spoons, forks, knives—all orderly and ready. Pots and pans rested on open shelves and the stove, their surfaces darkened by years of cooking fires. There were no jars or tins left behind, no spices or canned goods waiting for me to discover. The pantry was bare, but the air smelled faintly of wood and old stone, a blank page waiting for new stories.

I moved deliberately, setting down the bags I had carried in. Flour and oats sat in sacks near the back door, heavy but comforting in their promise. I pulled a crusty loaf of bread from one bag, the crust crackling softly as I sliced thick pieces with the old knife I’d unpacked earlier. Next, I unwrapped a wedge of cheese, its scent rich and tangy, fresh from Lenna’s dairy stall.

The kettle was old but reliable, and I set it to boil. The whistle was faint, a gentle reminder in the quiet kitchen. I fetched the chamomile tea from the box Idris had prepared, steeping a small paper sachet in a chipped ceramic mug. The floral aroma rose like a warm embrace, softening the edges of my tired mind.

Carrying the plate to the small wooden table by the window, I settled into the chair, the hard wood pressing beneath me but steady and familiar. Outside, the garden breathed in the late light, the leaves of thyme and rosemary shimmering softly in the breeze. Somewhere beyond, the river whispered, its steady murmur weaving through the sounds of settling day.

The first bite of bread and cheese was simple but satisfying, the flavors honest and comforting. I chewed slowly, savoring the quiet moment. My hands rested on the table, wrapped loosely around the warm mug, drawing in the calm warmth.

Though exhaustion tugged at my muscles, sleep still felt distant, elusive. Instead of surrendering to it, I rose and wandered to the sitting room, drawn by the tall bookshelf standing like a sentinel against the far wall. The books left behind by Henrik were a treasure trove of forgotten stories—well-worn novels and fantastical tales, their spines cracked and pages yellowed with age.

I ran my fingers along the shelf, letting the familiar weight of the books steady me. Selecting a slender volume bound in faded blue cloth, I settled into the armchair near the window. The scent of old paper and lavender lingered, a soothing balm to frayed nerves. I opened the book, reading slowly, letting the words carry me far from the uncertainties of the day.

A sudden soft brush against my ankle made me pause and look down. Codex had slipped inside quietly at some point. I hadn’t noticed how she got in, but I welcomed her presence without question. She meowed softly and circled my legs before settling gracefully on my lap, curling into a tight ball of warmth and fur. Her steady purring vibrated against my thighs, a comforting rhythm that eased the ache of homesickness I hadn’t fully admitted to myself. I missed my family, their voices, their laughter, and the gentle companionship of the dog I’d left behind.

I stroked Codex’s soft fur, her warmth a quiet anchor in the stillness. The river’s murmur drifted in through the open window, mingling with the rustle of turning pages and the soft, steady breathing of a cat content in her chosen resting place. The exhaustion I’d fought earlier finally swept over me like a gentle tide as I settled into the chair fully.

After several chapters, I gently closed the book, careful not to disturb the soft patina of pages. The quiet settled once more around me, a gentle hush broken only by Codex’s steady purring. Slowly, I rose from the armchair, feeling the familiar weight of tiredness pulling at my limbs. Codex stirred as I stood, slipping silently from my lap to follow my footsteps. I made my way through the dimly lit apartment toward the bedroom, the wooden floor cool beneath my bare feet. The scent of fresh linen greeted me as I opened the door, the soft rustle of curtains brushing against the window frame in the light evening breeze.

I climbed into the bed, the sheets crisp and clean. Codex curled at my feet, her warmth spreading through the blankets like a quiet comfort. I felt the steady pulse of her breathing, the gentle rise and fall a lullaby all its own. The river’s distant murmur drifted in through the open window, mingling with the faint sounds of evening settling over the village. My eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion finally catching up with me. As sleep began to take hold, the last thought to cross my mind was quiet and certain: this was home now.