Eileen raises a brow as she sets Ollan down, she then walks through the greenhouse door that William leads her through, pausing only to place her hand on the wooden frame. It feels warmer now than when she entered, like it remembers her shape and is glad to finally meet her and she holds it tightly in return.

Heading across the yard, by the sloped garden path near the old rain barrel, Eileen finds the tumblers hard at work.

Three of them surround an industrial looking metal junction box, half fit together. Fur bristling, tails wagging they bark at one another in wild rhythms as thin white construction booklet pages lay strewn about. One has a wrench clenched in its teeth. Another is standing triumphantly on top of the barrel, holding what's left of the blueprint upside down. The third has abandoned tools entirely and is instead pounding one of the screws into the metal slats with a small hammer while others yip to it in encouragement.

She doesn't call out to any of them though, just waits and observes. Lets them try a solution one more time, just to be sure they've had their fill of the fun.

And as if by magic, the hammer slips this time, clattering to the dirt. A perfect moment for her to crouch down beside the one hammering the screw. "This here," she says gently, "needs a screwdriver. A hammer works best on nails."

Picking up a screwdriver from the tool bag nearby, she shows it to each of them. She then points to the bolts that match and makes the motion, so they can learn the pattern. "Twist it like this, see?"

The tumbler tilts its head at the motion she makes, then tries it itself. The screw turns... easy as breath. A solution that has the three of them wagging their tails, proud as can be until they each start fighting over the same screwdriver. The smallest one, fur fluffed out in every direction, eventually claiming the win, the screwdriver held tightly in her hand like a ribbon won at the state fair.

Eileen laughs softly then, not at them, but with them the kind of laugh that lands gently in the grass and tells it to keep growing. "Now then," Eileen says, brushing her palms on her skirt, "we've sorted twisting. But what about reading?"

Turning to a tumbler that has clambered atop the rain barrel again still holding the blueprint upside down, she gestures for the paper. Taking the time to reorient it she brings it to the beginning, wrapping it against the flat of her knee and then tapping the top edge.

"This bit here," she explains, "that's the title. You always want that to face the sky, in the more upward section, not towards the ground. That way you can follow the flow of what you're trying to fix."

The tumbler leans over her shoulder, its broad snout nearly brushing the parchment, ears twitching as if the paper itself might whisper secrets if they can listen hard enough. From below, another snout pushes in, nudging one aside for a better look, then yelps when its tail is stepped on by the third.

"And this," Eileen continues, tapping the symbol near the corner, "must be some type of brand. Perhaps this is a quality machine you are building, which is saying something all on its own. You'll want to be careful assembling this, I imagine pipes this angular don't like to be startled."

She turns to the one still holding a wrench in its teeth and extends a hand.

"No chewing, please." She smiles, "This tool is for turning, not testing your bite strength."

The tumbler drops it guiltily into her hand, and she holds it up for them all to see, her hands not flinching away from the drool which wraps the handle.

"You use it like this," she says, curling her fingers around the handle and miming the motion in slow, clear arcs. "Steady and with patience, not too fast. Let it feel the weight of your attention as you focus on turning the bolt this part sits around."

They nod with the weight of attention that only children have when hearing a bedtime story for the first time. Then each takes a turn, practicing on one of the looser pipe joints until the water system groans quietly and then hisses back into motion. A spray of cold mist bursting out of the far end, making all of them jump, one of them even squeals.

Eileen hums then pleased at their magnificent work, "See little ones, what grand work the three of you made together, my fluffy tumblers. It's time we start the preparations for dinner."

The smallest one proudly sticks the screwdriver behind one ear and puffs out her chest. Another tumbler clutches the wrench like a knight freshly armed, while the third gently rolls the blueprint back into a scroll and tucks it under one arm like a scroll bearer awaiting dispatch. They all follow her into the cottage, none of them daring the other to be left behind.

Inside, the kitchen smells like herbs and old sun, the kind of warmth that knows how to wait. The cupboards hush themselves as Eileen enters. The chairs not rearranging themselves today, but simply resting, still and attentive, like polite guests who know they are welcome, always.

Stepping across the tiled floor, steady and thoughtful, her gaze is drawn to the countertop where Audry works with quiet purpose. There is care in her method, not from need, but from love. Each ingredient laid out like a memory shared gently in the open space of a friendly conversation.

Fenn, the fox, sits beside a wide ceramic bowl, its rim piled high with mushrooms. His tail flicking in a quiet rhythm, like the hum of a familiar song and when Eileen draws near, he lets out one long, proud yowl as he nudges the bowl forward with his nose.

Above them, motes continue to gather in multiplying amounts. Dozens now drifting through the air in slow, deliberate spirals. Yellow ones hovering near the soup stock. Green motes humming with low energy beside the herbs. And from the mushroom bowl, pale white motes rise upward like shy lanterns, quiet but certain in their presence.

Eileen stops near the cutting board, her eyes catching on a single mote, one that hangs still in front of her. It does not float away though for it is curious and present, no longer afraid of never being enough. Then, as if drawn by a memory neither of them has spoken aloud, it lowers itself into her open palm. Its warmth is gentle, not hot, nor bright. More comforting, like the heat left behind on a cushion recently sat in, or the last light staying on in a room that needs the feeling of love.

"Oh… well aren't you lovely," she murmurs.

Audry turns at the sound of her voice, eyes wide. "You can see them now, Grandma?"

Eileen raises her hand slightly, still cupping the smallest mote. Glowing it pulses like a quiet heartbeat, even though it has no body, no source, it hovers there, content to be seen. She nods then slowly, somewhat for herself, a wonder evident in her voice. "I suppose I can Audry, is this what everyone has been seeing?"

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Fenn makes a small, satisfied sound, more sigh than yowl. His paw taps the tile of the backsplash once, then he settles again beside his bowl as if offering peace to the one who has given them all the most precious of motions to be content with.

An intent reinforced by more movement above as motes weave between the cabinet handles and light fixtures, paths slow and certain. While others drift near the bread carrying the faint warmth of laughter once shared and still remembered. A few even settling close to the teacups imbuing them with glow that touch's something deep within the soul that way the quiet scent of citrus and something older leaves someone speechless when left out to steep.

Showered, Xozo moves forward into the kitchen now, her eyes wide with something between curiosity and reverence. Lifting her hand, slow as breath, toward a green mote that hovers just beyond reach. It turns slightly, adjusting itself to the shape of her presence, then deepens in color. It glows the soft green of new shoots just breaking soil, with undertones the color of clover honey warmed by sun.

She watches it float there steady and unafraid, as if it recognizes her watching in return. Then after a long, thoughtful breath, she turns to Eileen. "They've always responded to you more so then they have to anyone else I have seen." she says, her voice low. "You anchor them in the same way you anchor all of us."

Eileen's smile, then lifts one shoulder in a gentle shrug, her gaze still on the motes drifting like slow thoughts across the kitchen air. "I've always liked helping others find a place to stay but I never imagined how many could see my purpose." she murmurs, and the words hang softly between them, like something settled in its own skin.

She then departs for the cutting board with adjacent stove where she sees Audry working diligently her hands moving with a quiet confidence. Her fingers, once tentative in the kitchen, now shape and guide each ingredient as if they are old friends returning home. She gathers herbs from a small clay bowl, not rushing, not weighing, simply sensing. The leaves falling into her palm with trust, and she cradles them for a moment before folding them into the stew like a memory.

The knife beside her resting in easy reach, its blade still slightly damp from chopping root vegetables. There is no tension in her posture, only focus, the kind of attention that listens as much as it acts and it is eerily similar to Eileen. She even hums under her breath, not a melody, just the soft rhythm of someone working in harmony with the space around them. Each motion is purposeful. Each placement of a spoon or bowl suggests something more than habit something nearer to care.

So Eileen not intruding, simply observing, waits for a proper moment to say hello. There is something in Audry now that wasn't there before, or perhaps had always been waiting, quietly nestled beneath the surface. She sees it in the way Audry wipes the countertop clean with the corner of a towel, not for tidiness alone, but for grace. She sees it in how Audry checks the bottom of the pot, lifting just enough to be sure nothing has caught, the kind of move someone makes after learning the weight of patience.

"You've gotten very good at this," Eileen says gently, her voice as warm as the broth steeping behind her.

Audry glances over, and her smile holds a soft kind of pride, not boastful, just well earned.

"It's hardly even me, the kitchen helps so much and the importance of organization is unimaginable," she replies, adjusting the flame beneath the kettle. "I still barely touch anything and yet all of this gets done. I didn't know how to hold a knife properly before coming home, or how to tell if a carrot was overcooked. But something about this place… it teaches, even when it doesn't speak."

She reaches for a jar of salt, pinching just the right amount without needing to measure. The pot accepts it with a contented bubble. Overhead, the light filters in through the window, falling across her shoulders like approval.

Eileen places a gentle hand on her arm. "You're not just feeding us, your feeding everyone and while everyone may pitch in, you should never short sell your own effort." she says softly. "You're tending something here. Letting the room know it's being looked after is most of the battle when it comes to making others comfortable."

Audry nods, and though she says nothing in return, her eyes shine with a quiet confidence. The ladle stirs again, steady and sure, and the scent that rises is full of belonging.

Audry ladles a spoonful of broth into a small ceramic cup and lifts it to her lips, testing the balance. She does not flinch when the heat touches her tongue. Instead, she closes her eyes, lets the flavors settle. A breath, then another. She nods, just once, and reaches for a lemon, slicing it cleanly and squeezing a few quiet drops into the pot. The scent sharpens, then softens, the way music bends between verses.

Eileen sits in one of the kitchen chairs near the window, arms curled around one of the fluffy tumblers for whom she is scratching the belly while watching not the stew but the girl at its center. There is something in the way Audry moves that reminds her of music learned by heart, the kind passed down not in sheet notes but in kitchens, in quiet afternoons and in the hush before dinner. The kind that doesn't need to be taught, only remembered fondly enough to matter.

Fenn stirs from beneath the table, his tail sweeping the floor in slow, even arcs. He yawns with the dignity of a creature who has already inspected everything and found it acceptable. Eileen reaches down to scratch behind his ear too, fingers trailing along the grain of the wood around the tables base as she does so.

"She's doing beautifully," she says, not to anyone in particular.

William sitting in the opposite chair with a book and an apple lifts his gaze from the fruit he's been polishing and nods in agreement. "She's now running this kitchen like she's got roots in it."

"She does," Eileen reaffirms, her words carrying a bit louder and Audry doesn't seem to hear them, or if she does, she chooses not to answer. She's spooning the stew into a wide glazed bowls now, the steam curling upward in lazy spirals. She adds a final twist of cracked pepper, then sets each bowl on the table with a kind of reverence, not in anyway pride, more offering then anything else.

Ollan is the first to find his seat, elbows perched neatly beside his bowl, trying very hard not to look too proud of the folded napkin he placed beside each setting. He had practiced them earlier in the day, corner to corner, pressing them flat with the heel of his hand like dough. Now they rest like soft flags at every place an unspoken welcome stitched from care.

However it does not register to him how the table has grown, how the kitchen has expanded and where once was a three seater round table now sits a 10 person colonial oak table.

The tumblers trail in next, not quite in a line, but close enough to suggest they are trying. Their paws are cleaner this time. One even carries a bundle of rosemary tied with kitchen twine, holding it upright like a torch. They hover near the table, unsure of where to sit until William gestures toward a section in the middle with bench for them to jostle each other around on as they so often liked to do.

Bowls are then passed from hand to hand, steam rising in ribbons that catch the light as if reluctant to leave. The stew tonight is thick, richer than usual, touched by something that lingers in the air, a soft insistence perhaps that everyone take comfort, even if they hadn't asked for it.

Audry moves smoothly from seat to seat, her hands confident now, her motions learned not from books but from repetition, from care, from the act of paying attention. She adjusts seasoning with a flick of her wrist depending on her interpretation of their palette and tucks a wayward sprig of thyme back into its proper place like it's a child in need of tucking in.

Yet she doesn't look to Eileen for approval. Not because she doesn't want it, but because something inside her has begun to trust her own way of doing things. Her knife strokes cleaner now then they had any right to be, her timing more instinctive. She knows when to let the onions go golden, when to stir without scraping the bottom of the pot. The kitchen listens to her differently than it once did not as an apprentice, but as a voice it recognizes.

Around the table then, spoons dip and rise, bread breaks gently between fingers, and there are no words at first. Only the small symphony of dinner porcelain meeting wood, broth settling in bowls, the sigh of someone leaning just slightly closer to warmth.

Eileen takes her seat last, once everyone has begun eating. She does not need to be at the head of the table to be its heart so she sits on the awkward corner section. Her hands folded for a moment before she eats, not in prayer exactly, but in acknowledgement. A small thanks, offered not to any god but to the gathered silence, to the ones beside her, and to the meal that made space for them all.

Including the one bowl that remains untouched at the far end of the table, placed with the same care as all the others. The chair beside it is empty, but not forgotten. A sprig of something green curled in the bowl's steam.

And beneath the table, Fenn sleeps with one paw curled under his chin, his breath steady and deep, as if he too trusts the quiet to hold.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.