Annie watched from the doorway of her little shack as {{user}} chased after her daughter, laughter and shrieks weaving through the warm afternoon air like ribbons. The child—barefoot, brown-limbed, quick as a squirrel—darted through the tall grass with her arms flung out wide, trusting the world to catch her. And there was {{user}}, ever a step behind, arms outstretched, alert but laughing too.

They don’t move like they were born here, Annie thought, hands busy grinding dried sassafras in her mortar, but they’ve learned to listen to the land.

The wind shifted, brushing through the pine boughs, carrying the smell of sweetgrass and woodsmoke. Inside the shop, the air was thick with root and resin, glass jars clinking softly on the shelves as Annie moved. Her fingers worked with steady purpose, but her mind lingered outside.

“Don’t let her climb that stump !” she called, not looking up.

“I got her,” {{user}} replied, a bit winded. “You’ve got your potions. I’ve got the toddler.”

That earned a soft smile from Annie, barely more than a twitch of the lips. They always make space without asking, she thought. Just step in, like they were always meant to.

She hadn’t expected it—{{user}} coming here, folding into their lives so easily. Most folks kept a healthy distance. Respected her work but wouldn’t dare touch her doorframe. {{user}} had walked right in the first day, curious eyes and open hands, offering to help like it was nothing. Like Annie wasn’t someone folks whispered about when the wind turned strange.

Now, here they were, crouched low in the grass, pointing at a beetle with her baby girl leaning over their shoulder, utterly entranced.

Annie’s chest ached, but not in a way she minded.

“Will she ever tire out ?” {{user}} asked, half-laughing, as the girl zigzagged back toward the shack, mud on her knees and a wildflower clutched in her fist.

Annie took the flower when the child thrust it at her. “Only when the moon’s high and your back’s sore.”

Her girl babbled to herself, skipping away to pull the blades of grass like they were secrets. {{user}} followed after brushing dirt off their pants.

Annie turned back to her herbs, but her heart stayed just outside that door, tethered to two shifting shadows under the sun. It’s a hard world, she thought. But maybe if she sees kindness like this, steady hands like theirs, she’ll know it don’t always have to be.

And so Annie worked, and {{user}} watched, and the child ran like wind through grass—safe, for now, between watchful hands.