The Knife and the Branch

The sun filtered through the tall trees around Greenbough, their leaves whispering in the breeze like gossiping spirits. Nireth sat on a stone bench in the backyard, a carving knife in one hand and a smooth branch in the other. Shavings gathered in a neat pile at her feet. Kaelyn sat nearby, legs crossed, watching silently.
 
"You’ve been staring at that stick for ten minutes,” Kaelyn said.
 
“It’s not a stick,” Nireth replied, not looking up. “It’s a whistle. Or it will be.”
 
Kaelyn scoffed. “It looks like firewood.”
 
She raised an eyebrow. “Want to do better?”
 
He shrugged, trying to act disinterested, but something about the challenge made his fingers itch. “Give me the knife.”
 
She handed it over, along with another piece of branch.
 
“Careful,” she said. “It’s sharper than it looks. Kind of like you.”
 
Kaelyn grinned a little at that, then began shaving away at the bark with focused concentration. He was quiet for a while, the rhythm of the carving soothing him.
 
After a few minutes, Nireth said gently, “You had another dream last night.”
 
Kaelyn tensed but didn’t stop carving. “I don’t remember.”
 
“You were crying in your sleep.”
 
“I said I don’t remember.”
 
She let the silence stretch.
 
Eventually, he muttered, “I think she was in it. Mama.”
 
Nireth nodded, setting her work down. “I dream about her too, sometimes.”
 
Kaelyn looked up, surprised. “You do?”
 
“Of course I do,” she said, her voice soft. “She’s our mother.”
 
“…Not mine.”
 
Nireth turned toward him, her expression patient but firm. “She was. She is.”
 
Kaelyn frowned. “She didn’t raise me. She never even told anyone about me.”
 
“She didn’t get the chance,” Nireth said. “You were taken from her. And then she lost you all over again when she couldn’t find you. Don’t you think she cried about that?”
 
He didn’t answer.
 
“You think you were the only one who felt abandoned?” she asked. “When you showed up out of nowhere, you weren’t the only one confused, Kael. Mara and I didn’t even know we had a brother.”
 
“Then why did you even let me stay?”
 
She blinked, startled by the sharpness in his voice.
 
“…Because the moment I saw your face, I knew. It’s not about blood, Kaelyn. It’s about choice. And I chose you.”
 
He looked away, the knife still in his hands. “You didn’t have to.”
 
“I wanted to,” she said. “And not just because of her. Because I saw the little boy who asked where his mother was at her funeral, and he looked so lost. And I realized I could either ignore that… or I could sit down next to him.”
 
Kaelyn looked at her then. Really looked.
 
She smiled. “You’re a pain sometimes. You steal sweets, lie about chores, and somehow charm every girl at the market. But you’re also brave. And clever. And you try so hard not to let people see how much things still hurt.”
 
“…I’m not that brave.”
 
She stood up and ruffled his hair. “You’re brave enough to keep carving, even after all the splinters.”
 
He looked down at the stick in his hands. It was still rough, still uneven—but maybe it could be something.
 
Just like him.
 
He smirked. “So what kind of whistle is this supposed to be?”
 
“One that makes birds sing.”
 
“Seriously?”
 
She winked. “If you carve it right.”
 
They sat side by side, carving in the quiet, the pile of shavings growing with the fading light. The air smelled like wood and memory.
 
And Kaelyn, for the first time in a long while, felt just a little more at home.