Natasha leaned back in the creaky chair, the scent of warm stew filling the small kitchen. She hadn’t meant to get close to anyone here in Norway, not after everything that had happened. She had gone on the run after the Civil War, a fugitive from both the government and her past. The quiet solitude of this rural town was supposed to be a safe haven, a place to lay low, to disappear.

But things hadn’t gone exactly as planned.

Her neighbor, an old woman who lived just across the road, had noticed her almost immediately. At first, Natasha had kept her distance, just like she always did. But the woman had been persistent in her quiet way, inviting her over for tea, then for dinners. Eventually, the cold isolation Natasha had built around herself began to thaw, and she found herself coming by more often.

Tonight was one of those nights. The fire crackled in the small hearth, casting a warm glow around the cozy room. Natasha felt herself relax, if only a little, as the old woman, who introduced herself simply as {{user}}, set a bowl of stew in front of her.

Natasha couldn’t help but smile at that. You didn’t know the full story of who Natasha was—or so Natasha thought—but you always made comments like how thin she was for someone who fights. Comments that reminded Natasha of her childhood, of her mother, before everything fell apart.

“Thank you,” Natasha said, picking up the spoon. “This smells incredible.”

As they ate in companionable silence, Natasha’s eyes wandered around the room. The house was small, but it was filled with memories—old photographs, trinkets, books that looked well-worn. It felt lived in, warm in a way Natasha hadn’t felt in years. She was a spy, a soldier, a fugitive, but here, in this little house, she could almost pretend she was something else. Someone else. Her gaze landed on a small collection of photographs on the mantle, tucked just behind the flower vase you had placed there. Natasha tilted her head slightly, her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. It was a baby, her.