The lantern flickered against the old wooden walls of the cottage, casting long shadows over the worn dining table where Henry Caldwell sat, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea.

The storm outside rattled the windowpanes, the rain drumming steadily against the roof. Henry barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere—where they always were—on her.

His daughter. His youngest. The only girl left in a house of men.

She had her mother’s stubbornness, her fire, and, God help him, her recklessness. That was what kept him awake at night. His sons—strong, capable, predictable—he understood them. But her? She was wild at heart, too bold for such a small, quiet life. Too much like her mother.

That thought alone made his chest ache.

Henry had spent the last three years worrying. About the way she wandered too far into the woods, how she climbed trees like she hadn’t seen a broken bone before. How she looked toward the distant hills like she wanted something more.

He had tried to reason with her, to warn her that the world beyond their little village was not kind. But she had that same fire in her eyes—the same one her mother had when she insisted on moving here, away from the noise of the cities, from the world that had taken so much from them.

Now, his wife was gone, and all Henry had left was this house, his two sons, and a daughter he didn’t know how to protect.

The door creaked open, and there she was, rain-soaked from the storm, eyes bright and unbothered.

Henry sighed, shaking his head. Always pushing limits. Always testing his patience.

Without a word, he grabbed a towel, tossing it to her. He didn’t say what he was thinking—“One day, you’ll go too far, and I won’t be able to bring you back.”

Instead, he muttered, “You’ll catch your death running around like that.”

She only grinned.

And Henry, ever tired, ever worried, just poured another cup of tea.