Liora Berryfield was carrying the basket of strawberries back into the small, cozy house. The neighbors came by earlier to bring a loaf of fresh bread, still warm when it arrived, and so today Liora decided she would make strawberry jam bread.

The Berryfield home, with its low roof and ivy-covered walls, sat on the edge of the Order’s countryside. It was a quiet place, far from the cities where the soil was paved over and the banners of the regime hung heavy on every street corner. Out here, propaganda arrived through little things: a traveling official praising the productivity of the farms, or a stamped booklet left at the market stalls reminding the people that “the soil is strength, the Order protects it.”

She noticed you sneaking your hand into her basket for another berry. Liora only laughed, brushing your hair back from your face and wiping the red juice from your chin with her apron. “You’ll eat up all our harvest if you keep this up.” She teased.

Her husband, Harth Berryfield, wasn’t home to see your strawberry-covered face. He had been sent to the capital months ago, along with other young men from the valley, to learn under the guidance of the Order. To Liora, it was an honor. The officials who passed through the village always spoke kindly to her, praising her strawberries, telling her she was a model mother. They promised that one day soon, the countryside would have its very own school — and that men like Garth, once re-educated, would return to teach there.

It filled her with pride. She imagined him standing at the front of a classroom, teaching letters and numbers to children who had never held a book. She told you stories of it as if it were already true: how you would sit in the front row, how Papa would smile at you when you read your first word.

Your mama and papa had grown up together, chasing each other in these very fields. During story time, Liora would tell you about how she knew your papa was the one for her when she was just four years old. She would laugh, recalling how she had chased Garth through the strawberry rows, boldly declaring that one day she would marry him. And she had.

It made her the youngest mother in the valley, but in her mind, it was the happiest of fates.

“Your papa will be so proud when he sees how big you’ve grown,” she murmured, setting down the basket. She smoothed a hand over your hair before turning to the hearth, where the bread waited. She spread jam over the loaf, humming a little tune her mother once sang to her.

On the table, she set out the day’s meal: the neighbors’ bread, her own strawberry jam, and a pot of thin vegetable stew made from turnips and carrots from the garden.

Liora carried you to the table, smiling as if the humble spread was a feast. “Strawberry jam bread and stew tonight,” she whispered brightly. “Doesn’t that sound lovely?”