Andrei and Rhian

Approximately four hundred years ago, the village of Oskari flourished around a house. The house was loved by those who lived in it, by those who had, and by those who would. There once was a brown-eyed boy who did. His mother was a teacher in the employ of the church, and his father was an architect contracted in the first renovation of the Widow’s Peak Inn. They were a remarkable family. They were law-abiding and well-liked, but with time and with wisdom, the boy would come to think of his mother as too carnal, and his father as too rigid. At the age of ten, the boy had not yet considered his parents as people, and and their faults flew far above his head. He cared only for the ones who slept late through the morning—his sister and her daughter, Lidia and Victoria.

Look, the kid was spoiled rotten by his sleeping sister, but he was touch meek. Didn’t think it’d be polite to just walk straight in. That, and his big sister had given him the what-for about a thousand times. ‘Course, he was a bored little boy, wasn’t he? Stomped around a bit, no doubt. Put on a terrific tragedy. Knock, knock, knock, and there was no answer. He eventually did what I would do. He whipped that door open and threw his tantrum in person.

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The room might have been like any other teenage girl’s bedroom, if not for a few stark differences. There was the bed, four-post and pretty. There was the handcrafted cupboard, and in the corner, the cradle. The butter-yellow drapes served as the only decoration. Like any other day, the boy expected to see his sister and his niece sleeping soundly. He expected the familiar scent of wildflowers and burnt wood. But on that day, there was something different—something the brown-eyed boy couldn’t place until he saw it for himself. On that day, the air smelled of wildflowers, burnt wood, and death.

Well, that was dramatic. I’d have just said they croaked.