The dawn crept into Wolthrope, gray and reluctant, seeping through the tenement’s cracked window to pool on the warped floor. Eleanor rose from her pallet, her bones aching as if the night had pressed them ft. The room smelled of mildew and yesterday’s gruel, its walls streaked with damp like tears frozen in time. She lit the stubs of two candles, their fmes frail against the gloom, and turned to her family—Eldric curled beneath a thin bnket, Margaret and Henry slumped on their straw, their breaths shallow whispers in the stillness.

  She knelt by Margaret, whose white hair spilled wild across the ticking, and took her trembling hands. “Morning, Mama,” she murmured, braiding the strands with care, each twist a thread of memory. She sang softly, a lulby from fields long lost—“Hush, my babe, the wind doth sigh”—and Margaret’s lips twitched, a hum rising from her clouded mind. For a moment, Eleanor saw the woman who’d soothed her childish fears, now a wraith adrift. She brushed a tear away, her chest tight with love and loss.

  Henry stirred, his gnarled fingers clutching the air. She crossed to him, smoothing his brow, and he rasped, “Nell,” his eyes flickering with recognition—a rare, piercing gift. “My girl,” he added, then sank back, the light fading as fast as it came. She held his hand, its weight a tether to a past she could not recim, and felt the abyss yawn wider beneath her feet.

  Eldric whimpered, his bent legs tangled in sleep. She lifted him, his warmth against her breast a fragile anchor, and rocked him as the candles guttered. “Mama’s here,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with the lie—she was breaking, piece by piece. The world outside roared with carts and chimneys, indifferent to her vigil, and she steeled herself against its cruelty. These hands, worn and scarred, must carry them all, though she feared they’d shatter under the load James had left behind.