Life assumed normality. Or more like, I was getting back into a healthy shape. At least, I could hold my food down. I would call that a bonus to breathing.

Soon I was moving like I had never faced death. My strength and agility were low to average. But those aspects I could improve after some decent strength training.

It was just as well the old man's cabin needed the cleaning. The sight of my arms not gaining muscle bothered me. For three full moons I had cooked, cleaned and slaved over other household duties. Yet, I remained so skinny that I looked like a puny weakling. What the hell was wrong with this body? Well, at least I was alive. I couldn't complain about my situation. I had a roof over my head, the chance to heal right, and food in my mouth each day.

And the old man seemed content to have me around. His offhanded grunts and nods said enough.

Soon our routine was him leaving at the crack of dawn and not coming home until sundown.

I would watch his dinghy draw itself out from the connected pier from the cabin's small window. It would sail away along misty waters. For some reason, seeing the billowy mist felt familiar and comforting. But, whenever I tried to pin down a memory from the feelings, I would draw blanks.

"Why can't I remember?" So bloody frustrating to not have a mind wanting to tell you your name.

For some reason, I felt I couldn't ask the old man about it. Since it was clear that he wasn't in the mood to talk when he walked through the door reeking of fish guts. The fist gut stench was enough to put me off the subject too. So every night we ate our dinner in a comfortable silence.

Life existed to this routine for us until one day he opened his mouth to let out some words at the dinner table.

"Yah recovered well. Dat be good," he grunted between mouthfuls.

"Thanks to yah, um, grandpa? Or do I call yah mister?" I hoped I was being polite, and frowned when I realized my voice carried an accent.

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But my frown eased when I saw a far-off expression in his eyes. Maybe it was nostalgia at me mentioning him being a grandpa. Or a reflective moment of loneliness. Regardless, there was a tinge of sadness in his expression and something else. I sensed, he was holding back on something.

A gusty breeze surprised our meal and moods as it knocked over a bowl of peas and cups of ale. Patterns of snowflakes and a tune of chimes filled my head all of a sudden. A gasp escaped our mouths when peas and ale drops lifted into the air on a gentle whirlwind. They slow danced into a sequence of snowflake patterns before us. It was a magical feast for the eyes.

I don't know why, but like being hugged by the energies the breeze was casting around us. The feeling of being home and yet so far away.

"Like a Neven," I mindlessly blurted as my eyes reflected the swelling white light cast around the midair food dance.

Urrea piztu. The words subconscious escaped my mouth when I heaved a sigh.

I gasped when the white light changed to a bright gold and began altering the texture of the food.

"Hellbore!" the old man cursed as he shuffled off his chair with shock.

The chair fell back with a heavy thud. It disrupted the magic to send the peas and ale raining down to the table's surface.

"Mister?" I stared at the old man.

My heart raced with an uneasiness as I glimpsed the expression of fear from his eyes.

"You, what are you?" His question was barely audible.

"I'm..." My mind and heart were racing so fast with feelings and thoughts all reaching to the one conclusion. Would my answer change this comfortable and mundane routine within an instance?

"I'm a girl." It was the only logical answer I could give him.

I sighed with relief when he nodded and resumed his usual, sober expression. Cleaning up the mess was a welcomed distraction.

Our conversation amounted to one or two words afterward. And the night passed normally, but I went to sleep feeling anxious for the first time.