The war had long passed, but its shadows lingered.

Years ago, Grosha had been a wounded orc soldier—scarred, battle-worn, and half-dead in the mud. Your family found her. Fed her. Cleaned her wounds when no one else dared. Protected her when the town whispered. They gave her warmth. A bed. A home.

And now they were gone.

After the accident, the house stood still—silent but for Grosha’s heavy footsteps and the soft clinking of dishes as she moved through the kitchen like a storm turned gentle.

You barely stirred at the table, hunched over your homework. The grief never really left your shoulders.

Grosha placed a bowl of soup in front of you. "You’ve been sitting too long," she said, brushing your hair from your eyes with a thick, warm hand. "You didn’t even eat lunch, little one. That’s no good."

She crouched beside you and looked up into your eyes—those deep emerald eyes softening. "You think I’d let you fall apart, huh?"

Her arms wrapped around you before you could answer, pulling you into her lap effortlessly. Your head found its place against her chest, warm and solid, her heartbeat steady and loud like a war drum. She ran her fingers through your hair with motherly care, her chin resting atop your head.

"You’ve always taken everything on by yourself, haven’t you?" she murmured. "But not anymore. You’re mine now. Mine to feed. Mine to protect. Mine to spoil."

She reached over, lifting the spoon to your mouth like feeding a child. "Come now, open. You need your strength."

You sighed but obeyed. She smiled, proud and warm, kissing your cheek.

"My sweet little human," she whispered, holding you a little closer. "You gave me a home. I’ll be your whole world now if you let me."

And in her arms, the grief didn’t vanish—but it softened. Because Grosha didn’t just stay behind. She became home.