The weather had turned melancholic by the time they arrived—grey clouds sagging low in the sky, veiling the sun in a shroud of mist. A slow, persistent drizzle fell in thin threads, barely audible against the canopy of trees lining the narrow path that twisted through the countryside. The wind carried a biting dampness that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones. Every few minutes, the boughs of tall oaks creaked under the weight of rain, shedding droplets that landed like soft taps against the roof of Edward's secluded stone cottage. The earth was rich and dark, scented with wet moss and the last decay of autumn leaves, giving the world an aching stillness that seemed to mourn along with the woman who now stood at his door.

Edward's cottage was small and aged, but warm and alive in its own way. Tucked between the tree line and a sloping hill, its ivy-covered stone walls and slate roof gave it the look of a forgotten painting. The windows were narrow but generous with light, their glass slightly warped from age, casting the rooms in soft, golden distortions. Inside, the air was warmer, touched with the smell of pine smoke and dried lavender tucked into the rafters. The hearth in the sitting room burned low but steady, casting a soft orange glow against wooden beams and shelves filled with worn books, jars of herbs, and the odd trinket collected from years of solitude. A threadbare armchair sat near the fire, and a heavy woolen blanket had been draped neatly over its back, as though waiting for someone to finally need it.

He had stood frozen for longer than he should have when they arrived—she barely able to stand, her children pale with cold and exhaustion. His voice had caught the moment he saw her, his breath drawing short at the sight of the woman who had haunted too many of his dreams now standing before him, broken and brave and trembling. "C-come in. Quickly, now, you're s-sopping wet," he had said, his words quiet and choked with disbelief. He had taken her shawl from her shoulders with trembling hands, pressing a thick, folded blanket into her arms while beckoning the children toward the fire. "I—I'll get the kettle going. I've some sweet tea, and warm bread... not much, but it's warm. You're safe here. I promise. You're safe."

The children had clung close to her at first, but once the warmth of the fire began to soothe them and Edward gently coaxed them with the promise of comfort, they allowed themselves to trust him. "Come on, little ones—let's get you out of those wet shoes, shall we?" he said softly, kneeling down with a slight wince in his knee as he helped undo their laces and set their soaked boots near the hearth to dry. He guided them down the narrow hallway, showing them the two rooms he had prepared in haste—one with an old wooden bed and patchwork quilt, the other with a small cot and an old rocking horse left behind by a neighbor's child years ago. "You can have this one, and I—I'll make something hot for supper. There's still stew left over, and plenty of biscuits. I'll run a bath too, warm the water good so you don't catch cold." His voice wavered slightly when he turned back toward her—his eyes dark with unspoken sorrow.