The Boy at the Door

The scent of cedar still lingered from the pyres, caught in the grain of the floorboards. Inside the workshop, half-sanded wood shavings curled on the bench—unfinished, just like everything since their mother passed.
 
Nireth sat near the hearth, eyes red but dry now, while Mara busied herself sharpening tools for the sake of doing something. The knock came like a whisper.
 
The door creaked open, and in stepped an elderly woman from the eastern glade. Beside him, small, dirty feet padded cautiously into the room.
 
A child stood there. Barely taller than the worktable. Black hair in a mop of tangles, cheeks ruddy from cold and tears. His sea-green eyes—too old for his face—scanned the room like he almost recognized it.
 
He opened his mouth.
 
“Is… is Mama here?”
 
Silence.
 
Nireth stood slowly. Mara turned sharply, blade still in hand, eyes locked on the boy. The elder spoke quietly.
 
“Said his name’s Kaelyn. He’s been missin’. Said someone dropped him in the woods. Found him near the Standing Tree.”
 
From the shadows, Elnar stepped forward. The man had aged twenty years in the past two days. He looked at the child—long and hard—and then said only:
 
“…It’s him.”
 
The girls turned toward their father, confusion in their eyes.
 
“Father? What do you mean, him?”
 
Elnar walked to the boy, knelt stiffly, and studied his face. He didn’t smile. Didn’t cry.
 
“I had a son,” he said flatly. “Before either of you. He vanished when he was just a baby. We thought he drowned in the brook. We never spoke of it after.”
 
Nireth gasped, hand to her chest. Mara stepped forward, fists clenched.
 
“And now he just—appears? You never told us?”
 
Kaelyn turned between them, trembling. “Where’s Mama?”
 
Mara opened her mouth, but no words came. Nireth stepped forward, knelt, and gently placed a hand on Kaelyn’s shoulder.
 
“She… she’s not here anymore, little one.”
 
“Where’d she go?” he asked, bottom lip trembling.
 
Nireth looked up at her father, but Elnar only turned away, staring blankly at the corner of the room. It was Mara who finally walked over, crouched down, and whispered—rough but honest:
 
“She’s gone, Kaelyn. She died a few days ago. We… we just said goodbye.”
 
The boy’s breath hitched. “But… I just got here.”
 
“I know,” Mara said, her voice breaking despite herself. “I know, little brother.”
 
Nireth looked at Kaelyn again—really looked—and felt something shift behind her ribs. A flicker of recognition in the curve of his mouth. Something familiar in the way he looked at the walls, like they were still alive to him.
 
Elnar finally spoke again, his voice gravel and distance.
 
“He’s blood. He stays.”
 
And then he left the room.
 
Nireth helped Kaelyn sit by the fire. Mara offered him a cup of warm milk. No one spoke for a long time.
 
The sisters had gained a brother—but not a mother to guide them. And as Kaelyn looked up, confused and blinking, the home they all thought they knew suddenly felt foreign to each of them.
 
----------------- Later --------------------
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm orange light across the walls. Kaelyn was curled up on the floor, one arm beneath his head, his breathing slow and even. He’d finally cried himself to sleep.
 
Nireth sat at the table with both hands around a chipped mug, the steam long gone. She stared at the tea but didn’t drink it.
 
“He doesn’t even know she’s gone,” she whispered.
 
Mara leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. “He’s three. Of course he doesn’t.”
 
“I mean really know. I think he still thinks he’s going to wake up tomorrow and find her sewing by the window.”
 
Mara’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “He’ll find her grave instead.”
 
Nireth looked over sharply. “Gods, Mara—”
 
“I’m not saying it to be cruel.” She sighed and moved to sit across from her sister. “I’m saying it because we’re the ones who’ll have to raise him now. And we don’t even know who he is.”
 
Nireth glanced over at the boy again, then said quietly, “Do you think he’s really our brother?”
 
Mara hesitated.
 
“…He has Father’s eyes. And the ears. And the jaw. Same as you.”
 
“He looks more like her than any of us,” Nireth murmured. “But I don’t remember Mother ever saying anything about another child.”
 
“She wouldn’t. Not if she lost him.” Mara drummed her fingers against the mug. “Maybe she thought it would break us. Or maybe she hoped one day he’d come back.”
 
“Just days after her funeral…” Nireth whispered, voice cracking.
 
Mara’s hands stilled. “Yeah. That timing is... hard.”
 
They sat in silence for a long moment, the fire the only sound between them.
 
Then Nireth said, “He’s so small.”
 
Mara nodded. “And he’s already lost more than most people do in a lifetime.”
 
“What do we even do with him?”
 
Mara shrugged, then sighed, shoulders sagging. “We teach him. Feed him. Keep him warm. Gods know he won’t get it from Father.”
 
“Did you see the way Father looked at him?” Nireth asked.
 
“Like he was a bad memory come walking through the door.”
 
“I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself. For losing him. For never telling us.”
 
Mara leaned forward, eyes hard. “That’s his guilt. Not Kaelyn’s.”
 
Nireth nodded. “Still… he’s going to feel it.”
 
“We all are,” Mara said. Then, with a wry, bitter smile: “Welcome to the family, little brother.”
 
A small sound came from the hearth—Kaelyn stirring. He muttered something, half-asleep, reaching blindly with one hand.
 
Nireth rose quietly, took a blanket from the chair, and draped it over him. He curled into it, sighing softly.
 
Mara watched.
 
“Guess we’ll have to be his mothers now,” she said. “Or at least the next best thing.”
 
Nireth smiled faintly. “I think we can manage that.”
 
They both sat and watched the fire burn low, their lives having changed forever in the span of two days—mourning a mother, discovering a brother, and stepping unexpectedly into the shape of something new.