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She gave a gentle smile, a light blush touching her cheeks.
“Just a simple family recipe,” she replied modestly.
Her hands, worn and calloused from years of hard work, gently cradled the hands of a young child seated beside her.
The couple’s four children ranged in age, each with bright eyes and a mop of curly hair that reminded me of ripened hi-jia fields.
They chatted animatedly among themselves, sneaking curious glances our way every so often.
Their innocent chatter, their laughter, the delicate touchof their hands as they passed dishes around — it was all so grounding, so real.
It was the farmer, Jarek, who finally broached the question we’d been dreading. “So, what brings you folks to this part of the land?”
His gaze was keen, yet not unkind.
Lorik and I exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken agreement passing between us.
The truth, as it stood, was too convoluted, too dangerous to share.
“We’re… travelers,” Lorik began, choosing his words with care. “On a journey to discover new places, make memories. We’ve heard so much about the beauty of this region.”
I chimed in:
“Yes, and we’re documenting our travels, hoping to share our experiences with others.”
I resisted the urge to reach out and touch Lorik’s hand under the table.
The fabric of his clothes felt cool and reassuring, a silent promise of support.
Jarek nodded slowly, processing our words. “Well, you’ve chosen an interesting time for it,” he remarked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “With the storms and all.”
The room filled with a gentle hum of conversation as the evening progressed.
Soft candlelight danced on the walls, casting flickering shadows that merged with the inky blackness outside.
The scent of the burning wax was soothing, its familiar aroma mingling with the lingering smells of dinner.
Hours seemed to pass in mere minutes.
My eyelids felt heavy, and my body yearned for rest.
The fatigue of the past days had caught up with us, and our need for sleep was evident.
Seeing our tired faces, Jarek’s wife, Elara, rose gracefully from her seat. “You all look exhausted,” she observed gently. “Why don’t you retire for the night? The barn’s warm and cozy. You’ll find plenty of hay to make a comfortable bed.”
We thanked them profusely, expressing our gratitude for their hospitality.
Guided by the soft glow of a lantern, we made our way to the barn.
The gentle hooting of an ol’lock echoed in the distance, the night alive with the sounds of nature.
The barn was spacious, the high rafters lost in shadows.
“I’ll rest down here,” Aznai said, dumping his pack beside a series of wooden pallets.
We climbed a ladder up to the attic of the barn.
The barn’s upper floor was a vast space filled with tall stacks of hay.
