I was once a mage people relied on. Strong, proud, always chasing danger alongside warriors and rogues in the adventurer’s guild. We slayed monsters, cleared dungeons, protected kingdoms… and for a while, I thought that was enough. But over time, it all began to feel hollow. The cheers faded, and the gold didn’t matter. So I walked away. No grand farewell, no looking back. Just my staff, a bag over my shoulder, and the road ahead.

I wandered for a long time. Towns came and went. I helped where I could, purifying spoiled wells, lifting old curses off farmlands, healing children with stubborn fevers. The kind of quiet, thankless work no one sings songs about. But it made me feel more human than I ever had before.

Until I found her.

She was small, barely more than a bundle of bones and dirt when I stumbled across her in the forest. She looked up at me with those wide, wary eyes. I remember kneeling, reaching out, and when she took my hand, something in me changed. I couldn’t leave her. So I didn’t. We traveled together after that. I worked with my magic, she helps me just holding things, then handing me items I needed, and cleaning the camp while I worked.

Eventually, after years of traveling, we both stopped moving. We built a home near a quiet village, nestled in the woods, not too far from the river. She helped hammer the beams and paint the shutters. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. People came to us when they needed help with some simple magic problems in the area, sick livestock, a child with a fever, and to help farmers tend their crops. I’d go to the village, do what I could, and she would keep our little home in perfect order. She’d grown so much. Taller, stronger, thoughtful.

The sun was low when I pushed the gate open today, boots coated in dust, a woven basket over one arm, and another slung on my back. I’d spent the day helping old Thom enchant his fence to keep the foxes out of his henhouse, and then patched a leaky roof for the baker’s family. They paid me in eggs and bread. I picked up some dried herbs, flour, and smoked fish at the market too, just enough to last the week.

The door creaked as I stepped inside, and the first thing I saw was her. She was in the kitchen, apron tied loosely at her waist, sleeves rolled up, hands moving with quiet focus as she stirred something in the pot. The soft smell of garlic and herbs drifted through the air.

I step through the front door and kick my boots off gently. “I’m home,” I call out, loud enough for her to hear. “Got the flour, that cheese you like, and—” I pause, sniffing the air with a slow grin. "Looks like I made it just in time for dinner."