Hmu Hmo sat outside a hut on the crater's rim. His gaze lingered on the quivering trees in the central garden—an island of life in this dormant volcano's vast and stony core. Sunlight cascaded freely into the crater, nurturing this hidden sanctuary. It was a rare blessing, reserved only for those who called the crater home. Yet the trees, rooted in this isolated paradise, had never stretched their branches toward the open skies nor tasted the vitality of a river's song. Their gentle swaying in the faint breeze whispered a bittersweet melody—an ode to both their fragile beauty and their imprisonment.
The crater walls rose high. To the settlers, the walls brought peace and prosperity. To Hmu Hmo, they felt heavy. The tranquility of this self-contained haven clashed against the turmoil boiling in his chest. He felt out of place—his presence a curse to the harmony of this secluded life. Even the walls seemed to judge him. Their stillness pressed against him, echoing the voices in his head.
A soft voice broke the quiet. "Hmu Hmo, would you like to join us for lunch?" He flinched. The worship hymn ringing in his ears faded away. Daisy stood in the doorway, her figure outlined by the faint light from the hall behind her. Her lips curved in a fragile smile, thin as dried reeds bending in the wind. Her gaze wavered, flickering like a candle flame in an unsteady draft.
Hmu Hmo turned to her slowly. His eyelids felt heavy, as if the weight of unspoken burdens pulled them down. He swallowed painfully, his throat dry. "I... I think I'll stay here for a while," he murmured, the words thin and threadbare, barely audible.
Daisy inclined her head in quiet acceptance, her smile softening into something more tender, like a mother smoothing wrinkles from a funeral shroud. "Take your time," she said gently. "We're here if you need anything." Her fingers lingered on the doorframe, their grip tightening briefly before she added, "Bryn made spiced hare stew. I'll save some for you." Her words floated in the air like the last tendrils of woodsmoke before she withdrew.
When her steps faded, Hmu Hmo exhaled. Guilt stirred in his stomach, an ever-present ache. He knew they meant well—Daisy with her quiet invitations, Bryn with his carefully prepared meals—but their kindness only heightened his sense of being an unwelcome presence. The effort they extended toward him felt undeserved, like trying to nurture a stone into bloom.
He rose from the chair, his bare toes brushing against the cold soil. The decision to move was almost subconscious, a quiet inevitability. He stepped out of the shade. The sunlight stung his eyes like salt on an open wound, but he stepped toward it anyway.
The garden greeted him with a blaze of autumn hues. Flowers stood resilient despite the frost curling their edges, their colors vivid—amber, crimson, and saffron. The air carried a mix of scents: the earthy sweetness of decaying leaves, the faint musk of ripening pumpkins, and a trace of smoke from a distant fire.
Hmu Hmo paused by a weathered bench, his breaths coming in shallow, uneven waves that seemed to freeze in his chest. Before him, skeletal branches stretched toward the circular sky, their remaining leaves flickering like flames in the shadow.
Then, Hmu Hmo caught some movements at the corner of his eye—a bird fluttering to a nearby branch. Its feathers shimmered. It tilted its head, curious. Hmu Hmo smiled faintly. Memories stirred—small, happy fragments from another time. He watched the bird, his mind quiet for a moment. But the peace didn't last.
"Play with me!" A sharp voice cut through. Dobby burst out from behind him, her golden hair catching the light like wildfire. She kicked a lumpy ball made from woven animal hide, its uneven surface bouncing unpredictably on the ground. Her emerald eyes locked on him, full of life.
He hesitated. But Dobby's gaze didn't waver. She stood firm, hands on her hips. She waited.
"Alright," he said softly, forcing a small smile, which loosened the tension in his chest, if only slightly.
Dobby tossed him the ball, and he returned it. It missed her; her innocent laughter rang out, clear and bright. It sounded like wind chimes.
Hmu Hmo fumbled the ball. Her giggles grew louder. It was infectious, tugging at something buried deep within him. His lips twitched—somehow, he laughed too. The sound he heaved out felt foreign, like an artifact from another life, but warm—like a moth daring to spread its wings near a flame.
Bryn appeared not long after, carrying a clay dish. Steam rose from it, rich and inviting—the smell of roasted roots and herbs. Bryn wore a hopeful expression. Hmu Hmo's chest ached at the sight. The meal was familiar; it reminded him of the one his mother made and burned the night before the crusaders came. The memory surged forward, unbidden and sharp, like a thorn scraping against his skin.
Thud-thud.
The ball dropped. Dobby's small hand gripped his wrist. Her touch was warm and comforting. Her eyes searched his face. "Hurt?" she asked softly.
He swallowed—dirt and salt. "No. Just...remembering."
They settled on the bench, the wood damp from lingering morning dew. They shared the meal. Bryn spoke of harvests and rationing. Dobby smeared grease on her chin. Hmu Hmo ate slowly, counting each chew—seven bites before the sweetness of the roasted roots turned bitter on his tongue.
These strangers had given him more than food. They offered a sense of communion, a fragile connection he didn't know he craved. Yet he couldn't shake the thought that their kindness stemmed from ignorance. They didn't know the terror he carried, the nightmare that clawed at him behind closed eyelids. But perhaps their ignorance was a blessing.
Cree-cree-cree—a cricket chirped. The garden felt alive. Hmu Hmo looked at the sky. Clouds hung low. The colors faded. The air stung. Everything was fleeting. Nothing would last.
But for now, he willed himself a moment of stillness. The weight in his chest didn't vanish, but it eased just enough to let him breathe.