The tires crunched over the frost-dusted road as you steered your car down the winding path into the village, the snow-covered peaks glowing soft pink in the late afternoon sun. Your arms were full of bags as you unlocked the barn, the smell of hay and animals hitting you immediately. The village behind you was quiet, the lanterns flickering gently along cobblestone streets, horses nickering softly in their pens.

You set the first crate of fresh bread on the counter, then carried in milk, jars of preserves, and a basket of vegetables, humming under your breath. The barn was warm, cozy, a little world unto itself.

Then, from above, you heard a squeal.

“WHEEEEEEEHH!!"

You froze mid-step and looked up, blinking. There she was—Jenna, dangling from the loft railing by her hands, short legs kicking in the air, hair messy, cheeks flushed with excitement. She was sixteen, technically old enough to act older, but she had never been taught the usual rules of growing up. So she swung like a wild little sprite, laughter echoing through the barn.