The Edge of the Known World
The sky over Willow Creek had not yet decided what color it wanted to be. It hung somewhere between ink and ash, a few stars still stubbornly visible above the eastern ridge, when Elara's eyes opened without any help from the rooster.
She lay still for a moment, listening to the house settle around her—the creak of old timber cooling from yesterday's heat, the soft scratch of a mouse somewhere behind the pantry wall, her father's heavy boots already thudding against the kitchen floorboards below. He was always awake first. She sometimes wondered if he ever slept at all, or if he simply stood guard over the farm through the darkest hours, daring trouble to show its face.
She swung her legs out from under the quilt her mother had stitched years ago—faded now, the once-bright thread gone the color of weak tea—and pressed her bare feet to the cold floor. The chill woke her fully, the way it always did, a small shock that chased away the last fog of sleep. Through the narrow window beside her bed, she could see the dark smudge of the forest crouched along the horizon, waiting the way it always waited, patient as a held breath.
She dressed quickly: wool stockings, the brown dress…