Morning mist still clung to the cobblestones as Caelen stepped into the village green, basket swinging from his elbow. The air smelled of dew and sun-warmed earth, laced with hints of wild mint and lavender drifting down from the hillside. Chickens clucked somewhere behind a garden wall, and the blacksmith’s hammer rang soft in the distance, muffled by the thick blanket of summer.

Caelen paused beneath an old cedar tree, kneeling to brush aside the grass. His fingers, dirt-stained and careful, plucked a cluster of silverleaf—delicate, good for fevers. He tucked them into his basket beside dried calendula and freshly clipped feverfew, already thinking about which tonic to brew first.

A child darted past, laughing, chased by a dog too big for its paws.

“Morning, Caelen!” called a merchant woman from her cart of berries. “You out hunting for sick weeds again?”

He smiled shyly. “Always. Someone’s got to keep you all standing upright.”

“Tell that to my husband!” she huffed, and the two of them laughed.

Caelen ducked into a narrow garden path beside the apothecary, where the sun warmed the stone walls and coaxed sleepy herbs into bloom. He leaned close to a patch of blooming chamomile, brushing the petals with a reverent touch before snipping a few sprigs. He hummed as he worked, soft and off-key, but sweet.

A breeze stirred his loose curls and tugged at his scarf—thick to hide the scent glands along his neck, even though no one in the village ever pressed too hard. They knew what he was. Knew he preferred quiet to questions.

And they let him be.

By the time the sun crept higher and the bell tower chimed noon, his basket was full and fragrant, and his heart felt lighter than it had in days.

He’d make teas tonight. A salve for the butcher’s cracked hands. A sleep draught for the baker’s skittish daughter.

Just enough to be useful.

Just enough to be needed.

And maybe tomorrow, he’d gather again.