Chapter Text
The sun sank behind the mountains with the languid grace of a drowsy child curling into slumber, its golden tendrils stretching heavenward in one last glorious display before surrendering to the twilight. The clouds, tinged with fiery hues of amber and rose, shimmered and shifted as though performing an intricate waltz to the silent symphony of the fading day. Beneath the towering peaks lay a valley of almost ethereal beauty, where meadow flowers bloomed in unbridled profusion, and the cheerful babble of creeks mingled with the solemn whisper of woods. It was in this dreamlike hollow of mist-kissed mornings and cricket-laden nights that the quaint community of Evendale nestled—a patchwork of sprawling farms and enduring traditions.
To a wayward traveler, perhaps one journeying to the bustling metropolis of New York and unexpectedly seeking shelter for the night, Evendale would seem a place untouched by the rush and clamor of modernity. Its downtown streets, lined with weathered clapboard buildings, lay still and silent by nine o’clock on a Saturday evening, the dust rising gently with the wind as though reluctant to disturb the peace. Chickens clucked with proprietorial airs, and dogs meandered at their leisure, claiming the quiet thoroughfares as their own. It was often remarked by those who passed through that in Evendale, nothing of true significance ever happened—save perhaps the occasional birth or wedding, which were celebrated as momentous occasions in the yearly cadence of the town’s life.
Beyond the modest bustle of the main street, where Mrs. Clyde’s Supply Shop stood with its inviting porch and old Captain Birkin’s tannery released the faint, earthy tang of cured leather, lay a quiet crossroads. Here, a visitor might pause, drawn by the hushed serenity of the scene. To the left stretched Maple Lane, its name an ode to the ancient and venerable maple tree that stood sentinel at its entrance. With branches gnarled and far-reaching, it seemed to embody the enduring spirit of Evendale, a living witness to generations come and gone. To the right wound Farm Way, its path a gentle ribbon of earth framed by the delicate grace of birch trees, their silvery trunks swaying lightly in the evening breeze. This road led to the farms that fringed the town, where fields rolled out in soft waves and the scent of hay and clover filled the air.
In this valley, where time meandered as slowly as the streams that crisscrossed its meadows, Evendale stood—a place where beauty lingered in the simplest of things, and life, though quiet, thrummed with the contented rhythm of days well-lived.
At the crossroads of Evendale, nestled snugly between the grand old maple and the rolling stretch of farmland, stood Mrs. Samantha Maulkins’ house—a home that had remained steadfast since her ancestor first claimed the spot generations ago. Mrs. Maulkins herself often remarked that her dwelling was perfectly situated for her tastes, perched as it was where travelers passed on their way out of town, and where most of Evendale’s children—whether from the farms or the cottages along Maple Lane—traversed daily en route to the schoolhouse. Her yard, a shortcut for many a little foot, was as much a thoroughfare as the roads themselves.
Mrs. Maulkins, ever the matronly figure, had a penchant for greeting the passing children with a plate of freshly baked treats in one hand and a piece of advice—or a scolding, if needed—on the tip of her tongue. Having raised seven children of her own, she considered herself well-versed in the affairs of the young and the old alike. While she called her interest in local happenings “neighborly concern,” others in Evendale were more inclined to label it “meddling.” But such labels mattered little to Mrs. Maulkins. She saw herself as the vigilant steward of her little corner of the valley, a title she bore with pride.
Thus, it was with her usual sharp eye for movement that Mrs. Maulkins, seated by her north-facing window with her spring knitting project in hand, caught sight of Mr. Henry Choi rattling down the main road in his wagon. The wagon’s direction was unmistakable: left onto Maple Lane, bound surely for Baltimore. Mrs. Maulkins’ hands paused mid-stitch, and her lips pursed in the peculiar way they always did when her curiosity was piqued. Setting down her knitting with great deliberation, she rose, slipped on her shawl and outdoor boots, and bustled toward the door. Her husband, John Andrew Maulkins, glanced up briefly from his newspaper — A quiet, timid man with a perpetually startled expression and a mouth that seemed permanently puckered in disapproval, John Andrew had long since resigned himself to his wife’s investigative tendencies. After 25 years of marriage, he knew better than to ask where she was headed or why. Mrs. Maulkins required no accomplice, nor any permission. And so, without a word exchanged, she swept out the front door, skirts flapping about her in a determined flurry.
Dust rose in little clouds around her stout boots as
Mrs. Maulkins strode purposefully toward the Carmody Inn, the establishment owned and operated by the Choi family since their arrival in Evendale long before Mrs. Maulkins herself had been a twinkle in her mother’s eye. The sight of Mr. Henry Choi heading off in his wagon without so much as a by-your-leave to the neighbors was, to Mrs. Maulkins’ mind, an occurrence requiring immediate investigation.
She reached the inn gate in short order, her breath coming only slightly quicker than usual. In the yard, Miriam Choi stood at the clothesline, deftly pinning up a fluttering sheet. A slim woman with streaks of gray threading through her neatly coiled hair, Miriam bore the lines of laughter and wisdom at the corners of her eyes, though her current expression was one of quiet concentration.
“Miriam!” Mrs. Maulkins called out, her voice a blend of urgency and familiarity as she pushed open the gate. “A word, if you please!”
Miriam glanced up, her hands pausing mid-motion, and greeted Mrs. Maulkins with a measured smile, the sort that suggested she was already bracing herself for whatever news—or inquiries—her visitor might bring.
“Miriam!” puffed Mrs. Maulkins as she bustled through the gate, her shawl slipping askew in her haste. “I just saw Henry Choi going up Maple Lane toward Baltimore—whatever for? Has he gone to Catonsville for the doctor? I feared you were ill, for I’ve never known Henry to leave you so abruptly unless it was an emergency. Now, tell me, whatever has happened? Surely, I can be of some use while he fetches the doctor.”
Miriam Choi paused mid-motion, a clothespin in hand, and set her laundry basket down with deliberate care. She dried her hands on her apron, her fingers wringing the fabric as if trying to squeeze out her exasperation along with the dampness. She should have expected Samantha Maulkins, of all people, to come rushing over to unravel the mystery of Henry’s departure. The woman couldn’t abide being left out of the goings-on in other people’s lives, and a wagon heading toward Baltimore was practically a beacon for her curiosity.
“Nothing’s wrong, Samantha,” Miriam replied, striving for patience as she folded her arms and met the other woman’s eager gaze. “It’s just that Henry’s grandfather’s brother’s daughter’s son—if you can follow all that—has been found in an orphanage up in New York City. How he came to be there, only heaven knows, but we’ve been asked to care for him since we’re his only living relatives. Henry’s gone to fetch him now.”
Mrs. Maulkins clutched her shawl closer and let out a dramatic gasp. “An orphaned child! Mercy me, Miriam, I had no idea!”
Miriam nodded, her voice steady but tinged with the weariness of one who has spent the night wrestling with her thoughts. “I’ve been airing out the spare room for him,” she said, gesturing toward the laundry flapping on the line. “He’ll stay on the same floor as Henry and me, so as not to be a bother to or be bothered by the guests. I told Henry, I’m no mother, and I’d never imagined raising a child—not after not being blessed with one of my own. But if the Good Lord has seen fit to send this boy to us, I suppose it’s for some purpose. Not that I can see it just yet.”
Her voice softened as she continued, the words tumbling out like water over stones. “The inn runs well enough, but I can’t help wondering if we’re prepared to take on a child. What does he need? How will he fit into this life of ours? And most of all, will I even know how to care for him?”
Mrs. Maulkins, who rarely found herself at a loss for words, stood silent for a moment, her face a study in conflicting emotions—curiosity battling with an uncharacteristic flicker of compassion. Finally, she said, “Well, Miriam, if anyone can manage it, it’s you. And I daresay Evendale could use a bit of excitement, even if it comes in the form of an orphaned boy. I’ll do whatever I can to help, you know.”
Miriam smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth lifting as if in reluctant gratitude. “Thank you, Samantha. We’ll see how this unfolds soon enough, I suppose.”
Mrs. Samantha Maulkins drew herself up, her ample
figure seeming to grow even larger with importance as she regarded Miriam with an intent gaze. “As sure as I live, I would never have thought such a thing would come to you and Henry,” she declared. “But the Lord’s blessings arrive in the most unexpected ways, and this must surely be a reward for your patience in bearing the trials of life without a child of your own. Now, if you have any questions on child-rearing, you know I’m just down the street, ready to advise. In the meantime, I think I’ll do us both a favor and step inside for a bit. You may follow me, doll; you don’t mind, do you? Thank you kindly.”
And so, as naturally as if she had been invited, Mrs. Maulkins marched toward the door, leaving Miriam to hasten after her. They passed through the spacious yet snug inn, its living space warmed by the scent of baking bread and the murmur of contented guests. A few patrons raised their hands in cordial greeting, their faces glowing with curiosity about the news that seemed to trail behind Mrs. Maulkins like a determined breeze.
In the kitchen, Miriam set about preparing tea, her movements brisk yet precise. The servant girl, catching Miriam’s glance, excused herself and disappeared quietly through the back door. Soon, a steaming pot of tea and a plate of biscuits graced the polished table before her uninvited—yet not entirely unwelcome—guest. Mrs. Maulkins settled herself with an air of authority, her sharp eyes missing no detail of the neat, orderly kitchen as she took her first sip of tea.
“Miriam,” she began, pursing her lips thoughtfully, “this boy—how old is he? He will be attending school, won’t he? If so, he can walk with my hired boy, Kai, and my Joseph. They’re good boys, and I’m sure they’d make fast friends with him.”
Miriam paused, her own teacup halfway to her lips. Her sharp, discerning gaze flicked to Mrs. Maulkins, measuring her words before replying. “Well, Henry tells me this boy is an omega, Samantha, so I doubt it would be proper for him to walk with your boys,” she said evenly, setting her cup down with a soft clink and reaching for a biscuit. “You haven’t any omegas in your household, have you?”
Mrs. Samantha shook her head and took a biscuit, chewing it thoughtfully as though she might divine wisdom from its texture. “None of school age,” she mused. “Well, a pity. But there are surely other omegan boys and girls at the schoolhouse. Why, Mrs. Willa Andrews’ girls are all omegas, and the Harrison boys as well. He’ll not be without companions.”
Miriam nodded absently, though her thoughts were elsewhere. This strange city boy, uprooted from all he had known and placed in the small, tightly-knit world of the Evendale schoolhouse—how would he manage? The thought troubled her more than she cared to admit, but she offered no argument. Instead, she stirred her sugarless tea with slow precision, muttering a quiet, “Yes, yes,” in reply to Mrs. Samantha’s cheerful rambling.
The sun had begun its descent by the time Mrs. Samantha rose to leave, the horizon ablaze with fiery reds and deep golds that painted the mountain tops in vivid splendor. Miriam saw her guest to the door with a polite smile, watching as the woman bustled off toward home, her skirts swishing purposefully as she vanished down the dusty road.
With the house quiet once more, Miriam turned her attention to the evening’s tasks. She moved through the kitchen, checking that the servant girls had laid out the supper without mishap. Soon, the dining room was filled with the soft clatter of plates and the low hum of amiable conversation from the inn’s guests. The warmth of the scene should have brought her peace, but Miriam’s mind was far from at ease.
She paced the length of the parlor, her gaze flitting repeatedly to the front door as though willing it to open. No matter how many times Henry made the journey to Baltimore, Miriam could never quiet the restless worry that took hold until he returned. The winding seashore road was both beautiful and treacherous, with its sharp bends and stretches of wilderness. What if the wagon wheel caught on a jagged stone? What if a sudden storm swept in, catching Henry unprepared?
And then there was the boy. The unknown child who would soon be under her care. What would he be like, this distant relation plucked from a city orphanage? Would he be timid and lost, or bold and brimming with questions she could not answer? Would he find his place in Evendale, among its simple ways and steady rhythms, or would he always feel like a stranger looking in?
As the last of the twilight faded into dusk, Miriam clasped her hands together tightly. She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer, soft and fervent. “Lord, keep him safe on the road, and grant me the strength to welcome this boy as I ought. Let him find a home here— in this valley and in our hearts.”
—
The guests had long since taken their lamps and candles and retired to the upstairs lounge or their rooms when Miriam, having worn the front rug thin with her fretful pacing, heard at last the steady clop of hooves and the creak of a wagon approaching.
Her heart gave a leap of mingled relief and apprehension. Without a moment’s pause, she flung open the carved oak doors and hurried onto the front porch. The wide veranda, wrapped around the gabled house and adorned with rocking chairs and trailing plants, was cast in the gentle glow of the lamp she clutched tightly in her hands.
In the golden light spilling from the windows, Henry’s familiar figure came into view—tall, angular, and unmistakably hers. He strode forward with the easy gait she had watched for years, but behind him trailed a smaller, slighter figure. Miriam’s eyes darted to the boy, noting the careful way he carried a small leather bag in one hand, his posture betraying a mixture of weariness and uncertainty.
“Henry,” Miriam said softly as her husband ascended the steps, the familiar lines of his face easing the tension in her chest. “I’m glad to have you back.”
Henry offered her a warm, if slightly tired, smile before turning to gesture to the boy at his side. “Miriam, this here is Soobin. Soobin, meet Miriam—my wife.”
Miriam shifted her gaze to the boy, her heart tightening at the sight of his wide, dark eyes, which seemed to drink in every detail of his surroundings. He gave a polite nod, his expression guarded, though there was a flicker of curiosity beneath his shyness.
Henry handed his hat to Miriam with a boyish grin that belied his years. She snatched it with a huff, though her cheeks flushed faintly when he reached out to tug playfully at a loose strand of her hair. He stepped past her into the warm embrace of the inn, leaving Miriam standing on the porch, momentarily flustered.
Miriam, shaking the girlish warmth from her body, regarded Soobin with a keen, almost appraising eye, taking in his slight frame and wide, uncertain gaze as he lingered hesitantly in the doorway, his small leather bag clutched tightly in his hand. Her words came swiftly, though not without an air of briskness that bordered on impatience. “Well, don’t just stand there, dear. Come inside, come inside — don’t be setting your things down just yet. I’m about to show you to your room.” She gave him a glance, noting his thinness with a quiet hmph. “Goodness, you are rather slight, aren’t you? No matter, I suppose. Won’t you follow me up? You’ll be staying on the same floor as Henry and me, so you won’t have to worry about disturbing the guests — or them disturbing you. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that we run an inn.”
She led the way up the stairs with an air of efficiency, casting a quick glance behind her. “Here we are,” she said, opening the door to a small room. “It’s not much, I’ll admit. But it’s tidy, and I expect you to keep it so.” She gave him a stern look, the kind she reserved for situations like this, where there was no room for disorder. “I won’t have a messy child under my roof.” She paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Have you eaten? No? Well, goodness me, wait here just a moment, and I’ll fetch you something small to eat.”
And with that, Miriam swept off, her mind still buzzing with the need to fill the silence that seemed to surround Soobin. He was a quiet child, too quiet for Miriam’s usual manner of incessant chatter, and she couldn’t help herself — Her words tumbled out like a river when faced with such stillness.
Soobin stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the quiet room pressing in around him. The room was simple, as plain as could be, with only the barest of furnishings. A bed, neatly made, with a quilt folded at the foot; a wash basin of plain china, gleaming in the dim light; and no adornment to break the starkness — no curtains to soften the light or pictures to warm the walls. It felt oddly familiar, like the orphanage rooms he had once known, and yet this one was different. This room was his own. A place just for him.
With trembling hands, he set down his bag, the small leather straps digging into his palms as though to remind him of all that had been left behind. Running his fingers along the windowsill, he leaned toward the window, drawn by the sight of a tall, wide white elm standing just outside, its branches brushing gently against the glass as if reaching out to him. The sight of the tree stirred something deep within him. There was something beautiful about trees, he thought in the quiet of his mind, the way they seemed to sway and dance with the wind, whispering secrets to those who would listen.
He let out a soft sigh, pressing his face against the cool windowpane, the only sound in the room the faint rustling of the elm’s leaves and the rhythmic thud of his own heart.
Miriam returned shortly with a plate of bread and butter, setting it down upon the small wooden nightstand with a decisive clink, her brow furrowing slightly as she surveyed the room. “Well, how many clothes do you have, Soobin?” she asked, the question taking on a tone of maternal concern. “I should think you’ll need a few more, won’t you? Only two pairs of dresses and one apron? Goodness, that won’t do at all. Well, don’t worry, I’ll make you a few as soon as I can. You’ll need to wear your old ones for school tomorrow, I’m afraid. It’s the first day, and it wouldn’t do for you to miss it. An education is a very important thing, you know.” She gave him a thoughtful look before continuing, her voice softening slightly. “Now, wash up, and I’ll check on you again soon. If you’re in need of anything, you just let me know.”
By the time Miriam returned, Soobin had already slipped beneath the covers, his small bag tucked away in the corner, the bread and butter left untouched on the plate, and his gaze fixated on the flickering flame of the lamp she had left with him.
The room was dim and quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth downstairs. Miriam stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him, and then, her voice firm but gentle, she spoke.
“Have you said your prayers, Soobin?” she asked, the words carrying a quiet authority.
Soobin’s eyes flickered up to her, a hint of curiosity in their depth, and he shook his head, his voice light and unguarded. “I don’t pray,” he said simply, his words spoken with the honesty of a child who had not yet learned the rituals of faith.
“You don’t pray?” Miriam’s eyebrows knitted together in mild surprise. “Nonsense. Here you shall,” she added, her voice taking on a note of gentle command. “On your knees, quickly, boy.” Miriam knelt beside him, her posture as straight as if she were attending to a sacred task, her breath held in a quiet anticipation. She clasped her hands together, as if to lead him into something far more important than a mere act of habit. “As so,” she murmured, demonstrating with a soft smile. “Now, when we pray, we thank God for our blessings and we ask Him for help, as we need it. I shall pray first, as an example, and you may follow.”
Miriam closed her eyes and lifted her face slightly toward the ceiling, her voice soft but clear, a prayer whispered from the depths of her heart. “Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the gift of life today. Thy mercies are without end, and I thank Thee for Thy goodness. Bless us this night, and watch over us always. Amen.”
She opened her eyes, and after a moment of stillness, Soobin spoke up, his voice quiet but earnest. “Dear God, thank you. Help me to be good. Amen.”
Miriam gently tucked the covers around Soobin, her fingers smoothing the blanket with a tenderness that belied the quiet dismay she felt. She had never in her life heard a prayer quite like his—so devoid of warmth, so lacking in feeling. Miriam’s heart ached a little as she looked at the small boy, his dark eyes wide and earnest in their simplicity. Why, she thought, even the smallest child in Evendale would say the Lord’s Prayer with more heart than Soobin had shown in those two brief, unremarkable sentences.
She took a deep breath, her voice soft but firm, as she sat beside him once more. “When we pray, Soobin, we should speak from the heart,” she said gently, her brow furrowing as she added, “You need not be so… heartless, dear.”
Soobin looked up at her, his expression untroubled. “I didn’t wish to be irreverent,” he explained, his voice calm, almost too calm. “So I spoke to Him like an adult.”
Miriam sighed quietly, a knowing look softening her features. “Aside from being God, He also wishes to be your friend, Soobin,” she said, her voice warm, the kind of warmth one might offer a child in need of comfort.
With that, she stood, her heart heavy yet hopeful that her words had found a place in the small, quiet corners of Soobin’s mind as she exited the bedroom along with the plate of bread and butter.
The next morning, Soobin was instructed to don his finest dress and apron, which, though carefully chosen, seemed a little too large for him. A serving girl, hardly taller than himself, placed a bowl of watery oatmeal before him, and after he had eaten it with some difficulty, he was bundled into a coat that threatened to swallow him whole and wrapped in a long scarf that nearly obscured his face. Then, with a slate that had been found tucked away in the back of a neglected closet, he was sent out the front door. The air still held the crispness of early spring, the frost of the night clinging to the grass in delicate veils of white.
Soobin made his way to school with a strange fluttering in his stomach and a weight that settled heavy on his chest. The earth beneath him was dry and stiff, dust rising in a cloud as his boots disturbed the forgotten soil, and his breath puffed out in a frosty mist that disappeared into the cool morning air. His steps were slow, for he allowed himself time to reflect as he passed Mrs. Samantha Maulkin’s house, his eyes fixed on the written directions Miriam had given him. The fields that stretched out before him, though barren and still, held a promise of future beauty — of blooms yet to unfurl and trees still bare of their leaves.
There was something about the whole affair that made Soobin uneasy, for he knew that today he would meet a host of new children — strangers, all of them, and surely far louder and smarter than he. He felt a tremor of nerves at the thought of it. He traversed the familiar meadow path, hopping over a creek with uncertain knees and trudging through the knee-high grass, the cold air nipping at his cheeks.
And at long last, there before him stood the schoolhouse — a quaint, whitewashed building that seemed both inviting and imposing. It was the place where the children of Evendale gathered for two school terms each year: one from May to August and the other from November through April.
Upon entering the schoolhouse, Soobin was immediately seized with an overwhelming sense of disorientation. He found himself uncertain of where to place his things, his heart suddenly swelling with a quiet distress. His eyes began to sting with the threat of tears, and for a moment, he considered turning and fleeing back to the inn, though he knew the disappointment it would bring Miriam would weigh on him heavily. It was then that a voice, soft and melodious, cut through his turmoil.
An omega boy, dark hair braided neatly down his back and dressed in a simple blue knee-length dress, approached him. Soobin, dressed in his own plain brown dress, couldn’t help but notice how similar they looked, yet this boy, with his calm demeanor, seemed to embody something Soobin longed for — a quiet sense of belonging.
“You’re new! And you look just a trifle terrified, if you don’t mind me saying. But oh, never fear! You can sit with me if you’ve no one else to sit with — us omegas always sit right up front, you see, we stick together. Come on, put your things here. Did you bring milk? No? Well, perhaps it’s for the best, for Minnie May always places her milk bottle next to mine, and you’d have to put yours with the alphas — and, well, that wouldn’t do, would it? I’m Beomgyu, by the way. You do have a name, don’t you?”
The omega chattered merrily as he led Soobin to the front row of desks, sliding into the seat nearest the window, where the morning sun fell in gentle beams, casting a soft light across the room. He motioned for Soobin to sit, and as Soobin unpacked his slate and lunch, Beomgyu’s lively voice continued to dance in the air. When Soobin, in his softest voice, murmured his name, Beomgyu’s face lit up with a grin that seemed to brighten the room.
“This is Soobin,” Beomgyu announced in a voice as cheerful as spring itself, “and he’ll be joining us now! I’m sure you all don’t mind, do you, dears?” He beamed at the other students, who smiled back in various degrees of warmth and curiosity. There was only one other boy among them, aside from Beomgyu and Soobin; the rest were all girls, who looked kindly at the newcomer.
The schoolhouse fell into a gentle hum as the students began their lessons under the watchful eye of Mr. Woods, the schoolmaster. Mr. Woods, an alpha with the characteristic air of authority, began the day with a recitation and some geometry exercises. As the students were released to work independently, Soobin sat at his desk, feeling utterly adrift. He had never seen geometry before in his life, and stared helplessly at his slate, hoping that the answers might magically appear before him in the soft glow of the sunlight streaming through the window.
Meanwhile, Beomgyu, ever the social creature, drifted about the room, chatting animatedly with nearly every student in sight about the assignments. His voice, light and cheerful, seemed to fill the room with an energy that Soobin could only envy; as Soobin sat there, the weight of the unfamiliar subject pressing on him, he could not help but feel like an outsider in this sea of voices.
A tap on his shoulder made Soobin start, his heart leaping in his chest, and he turned with bated breath. He exhaled in a quiet rush when he saw that the boy behind him was, indeed, an alpha, and not one to be frightened of after all.
“D’you need help?” The boy’s voice was light, and his face so dainty and delicate that Soobin might have mistaken him for an omega, had it not been for the unmistakable scent that clung to him. “Not to brag, but I’m rather good at geometry.”
“Well, if you can…” Soobin replied softly, his voice almost a whisper, and the boy, without another word, clambered over the chairs with ease and settled himself beside Soobin, flashing a bright grin.
“I’m Taehyun,” the boy introduced, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Where’re you from?”
And so the conversation flowed, easy and light, as Taehyun proved not only helpful with the perplexing subject of geometry, but patient too—far more patient than Soobin had expected an alpha to be. Soobin found himself caught up in the world of angles and lines, so much so that when the dinner bell rang in the early afternoon, it felt as though time had flown by.
The omegas, as always, gathered in the corner to enjoy their lunch, sharing their meals freely, though casting wary glances at anyone who didn’t offer a portion of their own. Soobin, eager to be liked and included, shared the vanilla puffs Miriam had packed him, his heart warming a little with each bite he handed out. There was something comforting in the act of sharing, and Soobin found himself basking in the warmth of their camaraderie.
After the meal, the omegas scattered into the schoolyard, their laughter ringing out as they readied themselves for the afternoon’s game. Beomgyu, as always, was the ringleader, rallying alphas and omegas alike for a spirited game of tag. Soobin had taken out his book, content to watch the other kids play, but Beomgyu, ever the eager soul, begged Soobin to join in.
With a hesitant nod, Soobin pushed himself to his feet, shaking just a little, and joined the fray. The game was much more physical than he had anticipated, and the dust clung to his dress as he was pushed and pulled and tagged, his cheeks grazing the dirt more times than he cared to count.
Once, when a tall alpha boy with dark hair and a cheeky grin was ‘It,’ he chased Soobin relentlessly, cornering him until Soobin, in his attempt to evade, sprawled face-first into the earth.
He sat up, cheeks flushed with the red of indignation, brushing dust from his hands.
“Why, that was awfully mean, Yeonjun!” Beomgyu cried from where he crouched beside Soobin, his tone both playful and reproachful. He patted Soobin’s hand gently, offering a comforting smile. “Don’t you know how to play gently with us omegas?”
Yeonjun, for his part, managed to look sheepish enough to duck his head and mumble an apology. “Well, I didn’t mean to shove him, I tripped.”
When the school day had come to a close, Beomgyu insisted on walking Soobin to the Inn, protesting that his own home was on the far side of Evendale and that it was no trouble at all.
“See,” Beomgyu exclaimed brightly, “we might just walk to school together tomorrow, if you’d like. Wait for me at Mrs. Maulkin’s house, and we can walk the rest of the way together. How fun!”
Soobin stood at the lowest step of the Inn’s porch, watching his new friend head down the dusty street, his form growing smaller in the golden light of the setting sun. His heart fluttered with the events of the day, and with a deep sigh, he hauled himself up the steps and into the Inn, his books held tightly to his chest as if they might somehow hold the joy he felt in that moment.
Miriam, who had been anxiously fretting over how Soobin might have fared at school—though she was far too proud to admit it—greeted him at the door with an expression that bordered on horror. Soobin stood there, his newly acquired dress and apron soiled beyond recognition, dust and stains clinging to him as if he had rolled in the very dirt itself. His cheeks were streaked with the marks of a long, hard day, and his hair, neat and tidy when he had left this morning, was a tangled mess, clumping together in ragged strands.
“Soobin! Never in all my days have I seen such a homely and dirty omega as you!” Miriam exclaimed, her voice a mix of exasperation and dismay. “You go around back to the water pump and wash yourself off—no, don’t even think of coming inside and dirtying my floors! I won’t have it.”
Soobin, feeling the sting of her words more than he let on, nodded meekly and hurried out the back door, the cold spring air biting at his skin as he made his way to the pump. The water was icy and unforgiving, but he scrubbed away the grime with a determination that surprised him, all the while wishing the earth would swallow him whole and save him from Miriam’s sharp tongue.
When he finally returned to the Inn, wet and shivering, Miriam was waiting for him with a frown that softened, if only slightly, as she shoved him into a chair by the warm hearth. “Now, you sit there and dry off,” she said briskly, placing a cup of coffee and a few biscuits in front of him. “You can do your schoolwork once you’ve dried, young man.” Her voice left no room for argument, and Soobin, knowing better than to protest, merely nodded and quietly expressed his concerns over the day’s lessons.
Miriam waved him off with a dismissive flick of her hand. “You’ll manage. There’s no sense in worrying now.”
Soobin, however, could not simply let go of his worries. As the evening shadows grew longer and the quiet hum of the household died down, he settled by the fire with his books, determined to tackle the assignments that lay before him. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the walls, and the peaceful stillness of the room wrapped around him like a warm blanket. His posture was as determined as it had ever been, though his brow furrowed in concentration as he struggled with the difficult geometry, a task made all the more frustrating without Taehyun’s patient guidance.
The soft creak of a chair turning made him glance over his shoulder, and to his surprise, there stood an older gentleman, his age betrayed by the lines etched into his weathered face and the full beard that framed his chin. He had the look of someone accustomed to hard work and quiet evenings, though his gaze held a certain warmth that eased Soobin’s unease.
“A studious youth is one to be admired,” the man said, his voice low and gentle, as he surveyed Soobin’s earnest effort.
Soobin blinked, unsure of how to respond, but the stranger, sensing his discomfort, only smiled kindly and added, “I was a schoolmaster for many years down south. If you’re struggling, I’d be happy to lend a hand.”
Soobin hesitated for a moment, then, eager to make sense of the lessons that seemed so elusive, nodded gratefully. “I would appreciate it, Mr. Edwards.”
And so, the two of them sat by the fire and the
flickering candlelight, with Mr. Edwards patiently guiding Soobin through the labyrinth of angles and equations. The hours passed in quiet companionship, and Soobin found himself slipping further into the study, his mind absorbing the lessons that had once seemed so foreign. As the night wore on and the candle burned low, he could feel his eyelids growing heavier, the words on the page blurring together as sleep tugged at him.
By the time the moon hung high in the sky, its silver light spilling through the windows of the parlor, Soobin had drifted into a peaceful doze, his head resting on the table amidst his books. The equations remained unfinished, but for the first time since his arrival in Evendale, he felt as if the world had not only grown a little brighter, but a little more kind.