Chapter 4: Finding My Rhythm

On her third morning in Riverhaven, I woke before the sun had fully crested the eastern rooftops, the air still edged with the cool damp of dawn. The faint pink light of early morning filtered through the apartment windows as I dressed quickly, twisting my hair up into a messy bun and pinning it in place with the same ribbon I'd worn the day before. Codex lifted her head from the windowsill as I passed, blinking slowly in the pale light but not bothering to rise. Her breakfast would come later. First: the market.

The street outside was quieter than I’d seen it on previous mornings, only the earliest risers out and about. My boots rang gently on the cobbles as I made my way down toward the main square. The mist still clung to the ground, and the river beyond murmured low and steady like breath. I passed the bakery just as its shutters were being lifted, a warm gust of yeasty air preceding the baker herself—Miri, the gnome with smile lines etched deep around her mouth.

"Good morning, Elspeth," she called cheerfully, handing off a cloth-wrapped parcel before I even reached the counter. "Fresh from the oven. That dark rye you liked."

I blinked, touched by the memory. "Thank you. I hadn’t planned to stop yet."

"Planned or not, you’ll need something to go with the sharp cheese from Lenna’s stall. Tell her to give you the good wedge today. Tell her I said so."

I laughed, accepting the bundle with both hands. "I will. Thank you again."

The market had only just begun to stir, but already the earliest vendors were in place, their canopies blooming like colorful flowers against the mist. Lenna, the cheese seller—an elder dryad with bark-lined knuckles and a crown of early spring leaves—was arranging wedges and wheels with slow, deliberate care.

"Back again so early," Lenna said approvingly as I approached. "Starting to move like a local already."

"I wasn’t sure what time Henrik used to open," I admitted.

She nodded slowly. "Henrik only ever kept odd hours. Ten to four most days. More if he was finishing something. Never opened before market, though."

That made me pause. "Was he always in the workshop beforehand?"

"Seemed so. Always came late, ink on his fingers, sleeves rolled up. Never wandered far from the workshop once he got started."

I smiled at the image. "I’ve been trying to follow in his footsteps."

"You’ll do fine," Lenna said, selecting a wedge of sharp goat’s cheese and tucking it into a waxed pouch. "On the house, for the first week. And Brida says you’ve already met Codex."

"Yes," I said dryly. "She made herself known."

"She always does."

As I continued through the market, more vendors waved or nodded in recognition. A dwarf selling pots of honey lifted one in greeting. A selkie woman behind the fish stall raised a hand in welcome, her display already neatly laid out with today's catch. I paused there to ask for a parcel of offcuts—something fresh to supplement Codex's diet—and she wrapped up a small bundle with practiced ease, slipping in a wink as she handed it over. The vegetable vendor—a fox-kin with russet fur and a wide straw hat—held up a bunch of delicate spring greens.

"Saved these for you," she said. "Knew you’d be by early."

"Thank you," I said, surprised. "That’s very kind."

"Henrik used to buy bundles for the cat, too. Said she liked them better than catmint."

"Codex is... discerning," I allowed.

I stocked up on apples, carrots, onions, a few early radishes, and a bundle of herbs I hadn’t seen since Highspire. Each transaction came with a nod or a word of welcome. It wasn’t quite familiarity, but it was something close. A rhythm. A beat I was beginning to move in time with.

Before heading back, I turned down the lane just off the square where the painted sign of a grinning yakka marked the animal supply shop. A half-orc stood behind the counter, sorting sacks of grain with practiced ease. Their thick arms flexed as they hoisted one onto a shelf behind them. A small fire-lizard purred from its perch on the windowsill, curled in the warmth of a sunbeam just beginning to reach the floor.

"Morning!" the half-orc called brightly. "You must be the new binder. Henrik’s successor."

"That’s me," I said. "Elspeth. I’m looking for proper food for a very opinionated cat."

"Codex," they said without missing a beat. "She prefers the smoked trout blend, but don’t let her get used to too much of it. Henrik always alternated with the chicken and oat."

I laughed. "I had no idea she came with such a reputation."

"She’s practically a shareholder," the half-orc said with a grin. "We can set you up with a month’s worth. Saves you the trip. We’ll schedule regular deliveries. First of each month work for you?"

"That would be perfect," I said, relieved.

"We’ll add it to the route. Payment’s monthly. You can drop by or leave it in the lockbox by the gate."

"Thank you. Truly."

They waved off my gratitude. "Happy to help. Welcome to Riverhaven."

As I left, the fire-lizard chirruped once and nudged its head against my hand. I scratched behind its crest gently, and it rumbled with contentment.

By the time I returned to the bindery, the sun had fully risen and the village had begun to bustle in earnest. My arms were full of parcels, my boots dusted with flour and straw, but something in me felt lighter. Not because the work ahead had lessened, but because I no longer felt quite so much a stranger.

I spent the rest of the morning cataloguing the shop’s contents in a fresh green notebook I had set aside for the purpose, its cover marked neatly with the words "Stock and Systems." I moved slowly through the front shop space, tracing my fingers along each shelf as I worked, pausing to write down titles, colours, and cover styles in tidy lines of script. The quiet around me felt companionable, interrupted only by the soft scritch of my pen and the occasional creak of a floorboard beneath my step.

It didn’t take long to see that Henrik had used a colour-based system for organizing the shelves—though if he’d written it down anywhere, I hadn’t found it yet. Grey-bound books clustered into a travel category: slim volumes with fold-out maps tucked into the back covers or notes on regional inns and ferry routes. Reds gathered near the front of the shop, mostly kitchen notebooks. Some were formatted with recipe grids and conversion charts; others had blank pages but included pocketed dividers and flour-resistant corners. Green seemed to mark guides and manuals—gardening logs, home repair records, basic enchantment references.

I recorded them by type, jotting notes on condition, binding style, and whether anything might need rebinding. Some were clearly Henrik’s work—the stitching along the spines had a signature neatness, slightly offset in a way I recognized from a sample he'd once submitted to the guild. Others looked like standard-issue books he’d likely purchased in bulk and rebound to better suit Riverhaven’s climate. Parchment laminated with waterproof coatings. Flexible waxed bindings. Moisture-resistant thread. It was practical and well thought out. The damp air near the river would have ruined ordinary bindings quickly.

But not all the books fit so easily. There were pale blue bindings with gold-speckled edges, filled with birdwatching notes or dream logs. A stack of violet-covered books were printed with blank music staves. One peculiar volume had a mirrored cover and pages that shimmered faintly when turned—each one empty but faintly humming with latent spellwork. I made a star beside that entry and tucked it carefully back into place.

Every few shelves, I paused to check the titles against the old price list I’d found among Henrik’s papers. Some of the prices hadn’t been updated in years. I pulled over the chalkboard hanging near the counter, wiped it clean with a damp cloth, and began again with deliberate strokes:

Standard Binding – 1 silver

Custom Binding – by consultation

Rebinding – 5 copper

I added listings for blank notebooks, sketchbooks, recipe logs, and spell journals. Then, after a pause, I stepped back, tapped the end of my chalk against my lip, and wrote a new line:

Letter-Writing Kits – from 3 silver

The idea had come to me while passing one of the lower cabinets, where parchment sheets lay stacked beside two rolls of pale green ribbon. I had plenty of parchment upstairs—cream, ivory, even a soft mulberry-flecked batch I’d brought from home. If I cut and lightly bound them just enough to allow pages to be removed cleanly, paired with matching envelopes, a wax seal, and perhaps a tin of ink, it could be a tidy little kit. Personal and practical. I made a note in the back of my notebook and underlined it twice.

Codex emerged from her nap in the windowsill and padded over, winding herself around my ankles and stretching until her claws scraped lightly against the floorboards.

"You already had breakfast," I reminded her gently, bending to scratch behind her ears. She blinked at me, slow and deliberate, her tail curling with amusement. With a soft huff, she turned and leapt back onto the sill, resuming her watch over the lane outside.

I returned to the shelves, resuming my cataloguing. I checked bindings for wear and shifted any volumes that looked misaligned or dusty. I straightened tags and rewrote a few that had faded. My notebook filled steadily:

10 grey travel journals—good condition, minor foxing on 2.

8 red recipe books—some corner wear, 3 laminated.

12 green manuals—4 with faded spines, 1 with loose stitching.

I paused mid-note and glanced toward the front display case. It was still nearly empty, only the few sketchbooks and hand-stitched journals I had selected yesterday lined up in careful rows. I scribbled another note to myself: More variety. Smaller sizes. Flexible covers. Lined paper. Field-ready.

After a quick trip upstairs to fetch a mug of tea, I sat cross-legged on the floor near the main display case and laid out a few options, comparing bindings and styles. I tested the clasp on one with a button-and-loop closure, flipped through another to check for proper glue adhesion. It held. I made a note to reinforce future batches with spine cloth.

As the sun slanted lower through the freshly cleaned windows, I stood and turned to the front display. A few blank spaces remained between the props and samples. I arranged one of the music journals beside a blank spellbook and placed a small fox-shaped paperweight between them. I folded a letter-writing kit mockup and tucked a tiny inkpot beside it, just for illustration. It looked lived-in. Like something worth stopping to examine.

In a corner cabinet, I found several mass-printed almanacs and reference books—plain covers, generic bindings. But Henrik had improved many of them: reinforced the spines, wax-sealed the edges, added ribbon bookmarks. I made a note to continue the practice. Not everyone would want a handmade book, but everyone appreciated a book that wouldn’t disintegrate at the first drop of river spray.

Behind a low divider, I discovered a shelf that had clearly been meant for something special. The books there were more ornate than any others in the shop—gleaming spines, polished covers, detailed endpapers. A full set of rebound fairy tales and common novels, each stitched with foil accents and printed filigree. I smiled as I ran a hand over the titles. I recognized several from childhood. These weren’t meant to be tucked away. They deserved the front shelf.

Carefully, I carried them over, arranging them just so on the main display. A few stood upright, spines glinting in the sunlight, others lay open to reveal the decorative illustrations. The linen covers and gold details would make them ideal for gift-giving.

I stepped back and surveyed the space. The rhythm of the work had rooted itself in me, gentle and focused. My hands were ink-smudged, my knees sore from crouching, but there was a quiet satisfaction in the slow transformation.

Codex glanced over from the windowsill, as if to approve, then turned her gaze back to the lane. I could hear the soft sounds of midday activity beyond the door: children calling to one another, the clatter of a cart wheel on cobblestones, the distant cry of the gooseberry seller.

I made one final note—Order more display cards for labeling—then closed the notebook and set it on the counter. The shop was not yet full. But it was beginning to feel full of purpose. And that, I thought as I adjusted the chalkboard sign one last time, was more than enough for one morning’s work.

The shop bell rang just as I was finishing lunch. I looked up, startled, half a bite of buttered bread still in my mouth. The plate on the desk beside me held the remnants of a hastily fried pork chop, the last of the sliced carrots, and crumbs from the crust. I’d meant to take a proper break, maybe go sit out by the garden, but I’d gotten distracted by straightening labels and re-shelving a pile of misfiled green manuals.

I brushed my fingers on a cloth and stood, making sure I didn’t still have crumbs on my skirt before I crossed to the front counter. The door creaked slightly as it opened again, and a young woman stepped in, a toddler perched easily on her hip.

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“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t sure if you were open. The sign looked freshly chalked.”

“It’s alright,” I said, then flushed. “Yes—well. I mean, not officially. But I’m here, and the stock’s in order, so… I suppose I am open.”

The woman gave a quick, grateful smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch.”

“You’re not. What can I help you find?”

“It’s my mother’s birthday,” she said, shifting the child on her hip. He looked around with wide eyes, pointing a chubby finger toward the window display. “She journals. Has since I was little. I was hoping for something fresh for her to write in. Something she’d actually enjoy using.”

I stepped out from behind the counter and guided her toward the shelves. “Would she prefer lined pages or unlined? Some people like the structure, others prefer freedom. And does she use a quill or charcoal, anything heavy with ink?”

“She writes at the kitchen table, mostly,” the woman said. “I think lined. And something sturdy. She uses a quill—doesn’t like scratching through thin paper.”

I nodded, already scanning the bindings. “This one might suit.” I pulled a dark blue linen-bound journal from the shelf. “It’s got lined parchment, fairly thick, stitched binding for durability. It’s not one of mine, but it’s well-made. Henrik stocked this for everyday use.”

She took it, ran a hand along the edge, and nodded. “This feels right. How much?”

“Four silver,” I said, then caught myself. “Actually, let me check the new board.”

I stepped back behind the counter and glanced up at the chalkboard I’d refreshed that morning. The prices gleamed clearly under the slant of early afternoon light. “Yes. Four silver.”

She pulled a small purse from the fold of her skirt and counted out the coins. “Thank you,” she said, as I wrapped the book in soft parchment and tied it with a bit of twine from the drawer beneath the desk. “It’s her sixtieth. I think she’ll like this more than a scarf.”

“I hope so,” I said, offering the package. “And if she ever wants a custom piece, I do take commissions.”

“Good to know.” She smiled again and made her way to the door, the toddler waving as they left. The bell jingled softly behind them.

I stood there for a long moment, holding the quiet. My first real sale. Not a friend dropping off something or someone bringing mail, but a customer, someone who didn’t know me yesterday and who chose the shop on her own.

Before I could return to my lunch, the door creaked again and two more figures stepped inside—travelers, by the look of their cloaks and the sun-weariness in their posture. The taller of the two had braided black hair and dust-lined boots; the other wore a longcoat with stitch-repaired sleeves and a badge pinned to her satchel flap: a courier’s knot.

“Just browsing,” the taller one said with a nod. “Saw the chalkboard.”

I followed their gaze. Sure enough, both were squinting at the fresh lettering.

One of them raised a brow. “Letter-writing kits, huh? You sell those?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “But I’m putting them together now. I have enough supplies to assemble a few sets this week.”

The courier stepped closer. “Would you take requests? I’d love something with a geometric pattern on the cover. Clean lines. Maybe dark grey or navy?”

Her companion nodded. “And if you’ve got silver leaf, I’d like a set with corner accents. Something elegant but not too fragile. I write often, so it needs to hold up.”

I picked up my notebook from the counter and opened to the back pages. “Geometric, navy or grey. Silver leaf accents. Quill-friendly parchment. Got it. I can have a few ready by next week as you return.”

“Perfect,” said the courier. “We’ll be back then. It’s nice to see the place open again.”

They didn’t buy anything today, but their interest was enough. They stayed another minute, thumbing through a few journals and nodding approvingly at the display before taking their leave. The bell jingled once more, and then it was quiet again. I exhaled slowly and turned back to my desk. The drawer beneath the work surface still held the green twine I’d found earlier, along with several neat stacks of parchment. There was enough for two full writing kits, and I had plenty more stored in the workshop cabinets if needed.

I pulled out the materials and began laying them out: folded parchment, lined and blank; pale green ribbon; small envelope pockets; and a few simple ink tins I’d found in one of the storage boxes. I would still need to source wax seals and see if anyone in town made travel quill cases, but it was a good start. Working slowly, I assembled the first kit, tying the bundle with green twine and adding a small paper label. Then the second. I’d make more tomorrow, maybe experiment with a decorative binding or two. It wasn’t about rushing—it was about doing the thing properly. From the windowsill, Codex blinked at me with what might have been approval. Her tail flicked lazily, and she watched me work in contented silence.

After locking the front door and making sure the Closed sign was up, I returned to the quiet hush of the garden, a basket in one hand and my sleeves rolled to the elbow. The air had begun to cool, touched by the first hints of evening, but the soil was still warm underfoot. I knelt near the tangled edge of one of the raised beds, where mint and calendula were growing together in a cheerful sprawl, and began to weed with slow, steady motions.

I had meant to clear just a little—perhaps enough for a kitchen plot, something neat and practical—but as I pulled back clusters of chickweed and creeping buttercup, I noticed something unexpected. Small wooden tags jutted up from the soil in uneven rows, many faded but still legible. The first read, For Blue Ink. Another, tucked beside a thick clump of indigo-colored leaves, said Mordant for Binding. A third was labeled Pest Deterrent – External Use Only. I paused, brow furrowing. These weren’t kitchen markers. I moved slowly along the row, brushing aside overgrowth to reveal more. Fixative base, Rosemary (binding clarity), Calendula – pigment only, Ashleaf – waterproofing trials.

This wasn’t a herb garden for tea or stew pots. It was a working garden, grown specifically to support the trade of bookbinding and enchantment. I sat back on my heels, heart thudding with a quiet sort of wonder. Henrik hadn’t just been a binder. He’d been cultivating his own supplies. Creating his own inks. Experimenting with mordants and additives to make his bindings more resilient, more enchanted. The connection between the shop and the garden, between the earth and the page—it wasn’t incidental. It was intentional. Crafted. Lived. I stood, brushing off my palms, and followed the worn stone path around the edge of the beds. At the back corner of the garden, nearly hidden behind a curtain of ivy, I spotted a low wooden door. I’d mistaken it before for a compost bin or tool crate. But now, brushing aside the leaves, I found the handle and gave it a gentle pull.

The shed door opened with a soft creak, releasing a dry, herbal scent—lavender, thyme, and something sharper, like dried citrus peel. Inside, slanting light filtered through a small windowpane thick with dust. A row of narrow shelves lined one wall, hung with neatly bundled herbs. Each was labeled in Henrik’s spidery script, noting not just the plant name but the harvest date and intended use.

Yarrow – 3rd bloom, binding fortifier.

Marigold – late summer, ink tinting (orange).

Sage – spring cutting, clarity spells.

Below the shelves sat a row of simple wooden drawers and a tool rack. A worn trowel, clippers, a hand broom, several small presses. It wasn’t fancy, but it was meticulous. Functional. Deeply loved. I touched the nearest bundle of dried indigo leaves and exhaled slowly. He hadn’t just left me a shop. He had left me a system. A place where every element supported the next—where pages were born from plants, where the soil lent its strength to the spine of every journal. It was more than a bindery and more than a garden. It was a living rhythm.

I stepped outside again and stood beneath the apple tree, letting the breeze stir my sleeves. Codex padded through the grass toward me and rubbed against my ankle, silent and observant as ever. I reached down and scratched behind her ears. “We have more to learn, don’t we?”

She blinked up at me, inscrutable as always, then turned and wandered back toward the shop door. I stayed, returning to my basket and sinking back down onto my knees. There was more to do. Still half the calendula bed to clear, and the creeping bindweed in the rosemary patch needed attention. I worked slowly, fingers finding roots by feel as I tugged gently, trying not to disturb the herbs I meant to keep. The repetition was grounding. My body moved while my thoughts wandered, settling into something close to peace.

By the time I finished the back corner and brushed dirt from my palms onto my skirts, the sky had softened into hues of violet and amber. My back ached gently from crouching, but it was a satisfying sort of ache—the kind that comes from doing something worthwhile with your hands. I stood, stretched, and gathered the weeds into the compost bin at the side. The beds still looked wild, but less so now. I’d cleared enough that I could see where paths had once been, narrow and winding, shaped more by function than form. Inside the shed, I left the tools carefully wiped and hung in their places. The bundles of herbs swayed slightly as I closed the door behind me. I lingered for a moment, hand resting on the latch, before making my way back inside.

The bindery was quiet now, warm with the last golden light of evening slanting through the back windows. I would have to start earlier tomorrow, but for now, the garden felt like it had told me something important. Not just about Henrik, but also about the way I wanted to live here.

The sky had begun its slow turn toward twilight by the time I returned upstairs, my skirts dusted faintly with garden soil and the smell of mint still clinging to my hands. The windows were open just enough to let in the breeze, warm and gentle as a sigh, rustling the sheer curtains in slow waves. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, I could hear the low murmur of the river and the occasional chirrup of birds settling in for the night. It was a quiet hour, one that didn’t ask anything of me except to simply be present.

I peeled off my outer layer—a lightweight apron I’d tied over my dress while working in the garden—and hung it by the door. My knees ached pleasantly from kneeling in the soil, and a faint line of sun still marked one arm where my sleeve had slipped. It felt like proof of the day. Of effort given and something small returned.

The kettle was already warm on the hob. I lit the flame beneath it and crossed to the pantry, pulling out what I needed without much thought: a shallow bowl of leftover carrots and lentils from yesterday, a bit of rye bread wrapped in cloth, and a wedge of sharp goat cheese from Lenna’s stall. A simple meal, but it had become its own kind of ritual. There was comfort in knowing exactly what I would eat and where I would sit. In the way the rhythm of evening began to build its own soft shape.

Codex appeared like clockwork as I sat at the little table tucked near the window, her paws nearly silent on the floorboards. She didn’t meow or nudge, simply curled around my feet, tail brushing slowly against my ankle in soft, looping arcs.

“Evening,” I murmured.

I rose briefly and crossed to the small cabinet I’d set up near the pantry, where the new sack of smoked trout and oat kibble sat waiting—delivered earlier that afternoon, just as promised. Beside it was the folded paper package of fish cutoffs I’d picked up that morning from the selkie at the market. I opened both, scooped a portion of kibble into Codex’s bowl, then added a few neatly trimmed pieces of fish on top for good measure.

She padded over at once, gave the bowl a cursory sniff, then began to eat with a delicacy that bordered on regal.

“I hope that meets with your approval,” I said dryly, returning to my seat and lifting my tea.

Codex didn’t reply, of course, but she gave a slow blink that might have passed for satisfaction before resuming her meal.

The journal lay open beside my plate—one of Henrik’s older ledgers, its cover worn smooth and softened at the edges. His handwriting was distinctive: narrow and precise, with an old-fashioned curl to his capital letters. I’d spent the past few nights familiarizing myself with it, letting the lines and loops become less foreign. He’d kept meticulous notes, not just on customers or inventory, but on the methods he’d refined over the years—binding techniques, enchantment ratios, even tests of how ink reacted to humidity. There were margin notes, occasional doodles of leaf shapes or tiny diagrams of stitching patterns, and once, a shopping list written sideways along the edge of the page: twine, barley, goat soap, ask Miri about apple vinegar.

I smiled faintly at that one, tracing my finger lightly down the column. He’d lived in the shop as fully as I was beginning to, letting the work spill naturally into every corner of his life. It wasn’t tidy, not in the way guild records were tidy—but it was clear. Personal. Honest.

I flipped a few more pages, curious to see if there were other routines I’d missed. Sure enough, patterns began to emerge. Ink ingredients ordered every third week. Quills sharpened in sets of twelve. Wax blocks restocked each new moon. Even his visits to the weaver’s stall had their own cadence—seasonal parchment bindings for wedding registries in spring, darker dyed journals prepared each autumn for merchant inventories.

There was a small note beside the entry for lamplighter ink: Check with Branwyn if the blend smells off again. Last batch too sulfurous. I snorted softly. I would have to ask if Branwyn still remembered the formula. He might be able to help identify some of the unlabeled vials I’d found in the back cabinet.

The longer I read, the more I could feel the rhythm beneath the entries. Not just lists and ledgers, but a kind of seasonal memory. Spring for ink-making, summer for bindings that needed to withstand travel. Autumn for inventory and archiving, winter for repairs and commissions meant to be given as gifts. It had all been there in the way Henrik lived—not just as a tradesman, but as someone in tune with the quiet cycles around him.

I finished my dinner slowly, reading as I chewed, and sipped the last of my tea as the sun slipped behind the trees. The shadows in the apartment stretched long and pale across the floor.

After clearing my plate and washing up at the basin, I returned to the worktable. Codex had jumped up and claimed the far corner. She flicked an ear as I approached but didn’t move.

“Just the records,” I told her softly. “Nothing too disruptive.”

She flicked her tail in acknowledgment.

I opened the current record book—mine, this time. The spine still creaked faintly when opened, the binding not yet broken in. Its pages were clean but filling steadily, each one a map of the days since I’d arrived. I noted the new inventory adjustments, two books sold, one custom request pending. I recorded the letter-writing kits prepared and labeled the trial batches by style and materials.

Then I hesitated, quill hovering over the page. I turned to a fresh sheet and began again, not as a shopkeeper tallying coin or items moved, but simply as a binder recording a thought.

Today I found the system beneath the garden.

Henrik didn’t just bind books—he bound process to place. Tools to soil. Magic to habit.

I paused. Scratched my quill gently against the side of the inkpot. Then wrote:

I think I understand what he meant to pass on. And I want to be worthy of it.

The ink gleamed slightly in the candlelight as it dried. I sprinkled a pinch of sand over the page and tilted it gently before brushing it clean with the edge of a cloth. My fingers had smudges of mint still beneath the nails, and I could smell rosemary when I tucked my hair behind my ear.

I closed the book and rested my hand atop the cover for a long moment. This was no longer just his record. It was ours.

Codex had fallen asleep again, curled so tightly she looked half her size. I didn’t disturb her. I left the quill cleaned and dried, set the inkpot’s lid back in place, and blew out the candle.

The stairs creaked softly beneath my feet as I climbed them, one hand grazing the railing out of habit. Upstairs, the air was cooler, touched faintly by the outside breeze drifting through the cracked window. I washed up with warm water and lavender soap, the bar nearly worn through from use, and changed into my nightdress by the soft light of the bedside lantern.

Outside, the sounds of the village had faded—no carts now, no calling vendors, just the occasional flutter of wings or the distant lap of water against the mooring stones. I padded barefoot across the room and pulled the curtains aside. The garden lay in shadow now, but I could still see the faint lines of the beds and the silvery shimmer of petals.

In the shed, the bundles would be swaying gently on their hooks. Calendula. Sage. Indigo and yarrow.

I didn’t know yet how to use them all. Not the way Henrik had. But I would learn.

Not out of obligation, but out of a growing wish to take root in the same soil. To do this not as a stand-in or a replacement, but as myself. Different, perhaps—but shaped by the same rhythms. The same quiet intention.

I turned from the window and moved slowly through the quiet apartment, the hush of the evening settling into every corner. The light had gone soft and silvery, casting gentle shadows that stretched across the floorboards like threads from an old, familiar story. I folded back the quilt and slid into bed, tucking the blankets around me with the kind of care one gives to old linens or freshly pressed pages. The mattress held the day’s warmth, and the scent of parchment and lavender clung faintly to the air, calming and clean.

It was some time before Codex appeared, silent as ever. She padded across the room with deliberate grace, leapt lightly onto the bed, and curled herself at the foot, her tail wrapping around her body in a perfect arc. I felt the slight shift in weight as she settled, her presence grounding, like a bookmark laid across the spine of the day.

Sleep came gently, curling around me like the edges of a worn quilt pulled snug. For the first time since arriving, I didn’t resist its weight or worry over the hours ahead. I let it take me slowly, like the tide drawing back from the shore—quiet and certain. The ache in my hands, the scent of herbs on my sleeves, the soft, even breaths of Codex at my feet—they all lingered just beneath the surface as I drifted, not away from the day, but deeper into its memory. And in that warmth, with the hush of the bindery cradling me, I finally allowed myself to rest.

The day had left its trace on me in quiet, layered ways—ink along my fingertips, garden soil clinging to the folds of my dress, a pleasant soreness blooming in my shoulders from time spent weeding and shelving. But more than that, it had left something subtler: the echo of a rhythm I was starting to understand. There was a memory in my limbs of where I'd been, a memory in the pages of what I’d tended to. Not just the work of the day, but its shape, its intention, its quiet fulfillment. And so, I let myself sink fully into the comfort of the moment—into the softness of the bed, the stillness of the room, and the gentle weight of belonging. I did not reach for more, did not puzzle out tomorrow. I simply breathed, and let sleep take me.

What had once been foreign was beginning to feel familiar. What had once felt borrowed was beginning to feel mine. This place, I thought as my eyes slipped closed, was starting to feel like home.