Baldor looked around the tavern, slow and steady, taking in the exposed beams, the long wooden bar, the rack of glass mugs behind it. “This is yours?”

  Finn nodded, trying to steady the whirl in his chest. “Mine… and Grog’s. Marla’s too. We built it together.”

  Baldor took a slow step inside. The wooden floor creaked under his boots, and for some reason, the sound struck Finn as the most real thing in the world.

  “It’s… beautiful,” Baldor said.

  A breath Finn didn’t know he was holding escaped him. “Come in. Sit down. I’ll get you something warm.”

  Alden gave Finn a knowing nod, then gestured toward the stairs. “I’ll find a room. Let you two talk.”

  “You and Baldor will have to share the spare room upstairs.” Finn replied.

  Finn watched him go, then turned back to Baldor, who had made his way to a table near the hearth, lowering himself into the chair with a sigh that held more years than Finn wanted to think about.

  The fire was low, its embers pulsing. Finn stoked it gently, then went behind the bar and poured two mugs of warm spiced cider left from the evening batch. He brought them over, set one down before Baldor, then sat across from him.

  The silence stretched between them—uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Not now.

  “So,” Finn said at last, fingers curled around his mug, “what made you decide to come all the way out here?”

  Baldor didn’t answer at first. He studied Finn, his expression unreadable.

  “You wrote me,” he said, voice low.

  Finn looked down at the table. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

  Baldor’s brow furrowed. “I read that letter at least twenty times before I picked up a pen.”

  Finn gave a faint, nervous chuckle. “Took me longer to write it.”

  Baldor let out a long exhale. “You look well.”

  “I am,” Finn said, almost surprised to hear the honesty in his own voice. “Better than I’ve been in years.”

  Baldor nodded slowly, sipping from the mug. His eyes wandered again, across the tavern—up to the ceiling, over the decorations, the paintings, the worn but polished tables.

  “You’ve done something here, son.”

  There it was—that word. Son. It landed gently, but it didn’t hurt like it used to. Finn swallowed hard and nodded. “Tried to turn things around.”

  “You did more than try.”

  For a moment, the only sound was the fire cracking softly.

  “Remember the fish market back home?” Baldor asked, breaking the silence. “You used to run off with smoked haddock in your pockets.”

  Finn laughed. “I was thirteen. Thought I was clever.”

  “You were,” Baldor said, chuckling. “Too clever. Damn near gave old Merim a heart attack.”

  They both laughed at that, the tension between them lightening.

  “But that’s when I realized,” Baldor said after a pause, “I didn’t know what to do with you. You were too wild, too angry.”

  Finn nodded, the humor gone from his face. “And you sent me to Ma.”

  Baldor's eyes dropped to his mug. “I thought it was the right thing.”

  “I know,” Finn said softly.

  Baldor’s gaze lifted, and his face was heavy with something harder to name—regret, perhaps. “I didn’t come tonight to make excuses. I just... I wanted to see you. See if there was anything left to save.”

  Finn studied his father. The rough hands, the once-firm jaw now softer with age. There was sorrow there, yes—but also the stubborn pride that had once shaped a young boy’s image of strength.

  “There’s something left,” Finn said. “If you want it.”

  Baldor didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes was enough.

  Outside, the wind sighed through the eaves, and somewhere in the darkened street, a dog barked and fell silent.

  Finn stood up slowly. “Let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

  Baldor stood too, a little slower. His mug was still half-full.

  They walked up the stairs side by side.

  #

  The morning in Puddlebrook arrived like a soft breath over the ocean.

  Gentle light poured in through the second-floor windows of The Velvet Ladle, slanting in golden shafts across floorboards worn smooth from years of shuffling boots. A gull cried faintly from somewhere beyond the rooftops. Inside the tavern, the hush of dawn was interrupted only by the scrape of Grog’s broom and the occasional clang of Marla’s pan as she washed up in the back.

  Finn stepped out from the hallway leading to his bathroom and stairway, rubbing at the sleep still tugging at the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t dreamed much—too much had happened, and his mind had been like a pot left to simmer, just shy of boiling over.

  He glanced toward the table by the hearth. His father was already there, arms crossed on the wood, staring out the front window as the sleepy town began to stir to life.

  “Morning,” Finn said, his voice scratchy.

  Baldor turned, offered a quiet nod. “Didn’t sleep much,” he admitted.

  “Me neither.”

  Behind the bar, Grog’s massive form appeared, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. “You’re both up early. Thought maybe we’d have to drag you out by the ankles.”

  Finn chuckled. “I don’t know if you could manage that, Grog. Baldor’s a brick wall.”

  “I can take him,” Grog said with a wink, then tossed the cloth at Marla, who caught it mid-step with a glare and kept moving.

  Marla looked over her shoulder at Finn. “Why don’t you show your father around the town a bit? We’ve got this covered.”

  “I don’t know—” Finn began, but Marla waved him off.

  “You’ve earned a morning off. Besides, I’d like to scrub the bar without someone hovering and rearranging mugs.”

  “She means you,” Grog added, thumbing toward Finn with a grin.

  Finn gave a good-natured sigh and looked at Baldor. “You up for a walk?”

  Baldor rose slowly from the table, stretching with a quiet groan of joints that hadn’t been properly rested. “I think I could manage that.”

  As they made for the front door, Alden emerged from the stairwell with a bedroll slung over one shoulder and a satchel in the other hand.

  “I’m off to find the inn,” Alden said with a yawn. “You lot enjoy the father-son bonding.”

  “Don’t let old Miss Corrigan rope you into board games,” Finn warned. “Last time, she stole three hours of my life and still claims I cheated at Orchard Toss.”

  Alden grinned. “I’ll consider it a cultural experience.”

  With a few more parting nods and waves, Alden stepped outside into the morning sun, already heading toward the town square. Finn followed soon after, Baldor beside him.

  The air was brisk and clean, tinged with the scent of the sea and distant woodsmoke. Puddlebrook stirred gently—vendors rolling carts into the square, a boy sweeping the steps of the general store, a pair of elderly women leaning over the railing of an upstairs balcony to gossip between flower boxes.

  Baldor took it all in as they walked slowly along the cobbled main street.

  “This place,” he murmured. “It’s peaceful.”

  “Most days,” Finn said. “We’ve had our share of excitement lately. But yeah—it’s a good place.”

  “You’re settled here,” Baldor said, not as a question, but a simple observation.

  “I am,” Finn replied, eyes drifting toward the nearby harbor where ships rocked lazily in their slips. “Didn’t know I could be until I was.”

  They passed by the bakery, its chimney puffing steadily, the scent of rising dough and cinnamon curling out of the open windows. Baldor sniffed the air with a half-smile.

  “That’s a smell I’ve missed,” he said.

  “Old man Tolvin runs it. Crusty as a mountain goat but he makes a honey wheat loaf that could make grown men weep.”

  “Sounds like I’ll need to stop by.”

  They continued on, not in any particular direction—just letting the town guide them. Children played by the edge of the green, chasing each other with sticks as makeshift swords. A dog barked happily, tail wagging, as its owner haggled over vegetables at a corner stall.

  For a while, they didn’t talk. They didn’t need to.

  Finally, as they reached a shaded walkway beneath a row of old elm trees, Baldor broke the silence.

  “I opened my own smithy. Just outside Pendrin.”

  Finn’s brow rose. “You? The man who said he’d be done with hot iron the day he retired?”

  Baldor chuckled. “Didn’t take. Retirement, I mean. Thought I’d try growing beets for a while. Lasted two months. I’m a blacksmith, son. I breathe better when the forge is lit.”

  Finn nodded, smiling. “I get that. I didn’t think I’d love running a tavern. But now? It’s part of who I am.”

  Baldor looked out toward the horizon, where the rooftops gave way to the open coast and the silver shimmer of the sea. His voice lowered.

  “Your mother would’ve loved this… who you’d become and accomplish.”

  Finn’s smile faded, replaced with something more solemn. “Yeah. I think so too.”

  They stopped at a low wooden bench overlooking the docks, and both sat down. Seagulls wheeled above the harbor, and the faint creak of mooring lines swayed in the breeze.

  Baldor stared out at the water for a long time.

  “I think about her a lot,” he said.

  Finn nodded. “So do I.”

  “I remember when we met,” Baldor said. “She was a flame, that woman. Strong-willed, full of ideas. Drove me crazy most days, but gods, did I love her.”

  “What happened?” Finn asked softly.

  Baldor was quiet for a long moment.

  “We argued. About Pendrin. She wanted to leave. Said the town was too small, too quiet, that it smothered her. I didn’t want to go. I’d just gotten the forge, just started carving out a place for myself. And I was stubborn.”

  Finn said nothing, just let the words settle.

  “She left,” Baldor continued. “Thought she’d find something better in Laudendale. I let her go. Told myself I was doing the right thing, staying rooted. But I watched her walk away, and every day after that, I questioned whether I’d made a mistake.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Finn stared at his hands. “She tried her best. But she grew sick. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

  Baldor looked over at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “And I didn’t come for you. That was my failure.”

  Finn swallowed hard. “I got into trouble. Did things I’m not proud of.”

  “I heard,” Baldor said. “The letters stopped coming. I figured you didn’t want me anymore.”

  “I didn’t know how to reach out. I thought you’d given up on me.”

  Baldor leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together.

  “I did. And I hate that.”

  Finn blinked back a sudden sting behind his eyes. “I hated you for a while.”

  “I know.”

  They sat in the silence that followed, both gazing out across the endless gray-blue of the sea.

  Then Baldor cleared his throat. “But I never stopped wondering who you’d become.”

  Finn glanced sideways at him. “Still figuring that out. But I think I’m on the right path.”

  Baldor nodded slowly. “I can see that.”

  A breeze swept over the water, carrying the scent of salt and pine, ruffling their hair. Finn stood and stretched, hands on his hips.

  “Come on,” he said. “There’s still more of Puddlebrook to see. I want you to meet Bix. He’s sort of like a town crier, but with more opinions and fewer facts.”

  Baldor stood as well, brushing the dust from his trousers. “Lead the way.”

  And they walked, side by side, through the town that Finn had come to love—a town now witnessing the quiet repair of something long broken.

  #

  The afternoon sun stretched across the cobblestones, casting warm light through the uneven panes of Puddlebrook’s shop windows. As they made their way back through the winding lanes, Finn and Baldor passed small gatherings of townsfolk enjoying the day — a woman in a sunhat arranging dyed fabrics over a clothesline, a trio of musicians playing softly outside a tailor’s door, and a group of children dancing in a ring around the fountain near the center square.

  It was quieter than a market day but livelier than a regular afternoon. There was a kind of calm motion to it all, like the heartbeat of a small town breathing easy.

  Baldor slowed as they crossed the square again. “I remember this,” he said, gesturing toward the fountain. “This style of stonework… It's common in the southern provinces. I worked on something similar during a trade guild commission years ago.”

  Finn arched an eyebrow. “You did work outside of Pendrin?”

  “Briefly,” Baldor replied, a faint smirk tugging at his face. “Your mother and I traveled a bit before we settled in. One of the few times we were really in sync. She loved seeing new places.”

  “Did she?” Finn asked, tone quiet.

  Baldor nodded. “She had a habit of collecting little glass trinkets from every town we stopped in. Had a whole shelf of them. You used to chew on them when you were a toddler.”

  Finn gave a soft laugh. “I remember that shelf. Thought they were candy.”

  “She never forgave you for biting the wing off her glass sparrow.”

  Their laughter echoed lightly in the open air. A few people turned to look, curious, but no one intruded. The warmth between father and son, though still fragile, was becoming something solid.

  By the time they returned to The Velvet Ladle, the sky had slipped into soft orange and purple tones. The front windows glowed with the light of the setting sun, and from within came the distant hum of cleaning and muffled chatter.

  As they stepped inside, they were met with the distinct smell of soap and lemon oil. The floors gleamed, chairs were stacked along one wall, and Marla stood on a stool, reaching to dust the lantern sconces.

  Grog, meanwhile, sat on a barrel near the hearth, sipping what looked like a well-earned mug of cider.

  “Look who’s back,” Grog called. “The conquerors of cobblestone.”

  Marla glanced down from her perch. “About time. I was just about to clean the front door with your shirts.”

  Finn rolled his eyes. “I’d say it looks perfect in here, but I know better than to comment on Marla’s work while she’s holding a rag.”

  “Smart boy,” she muttered, stepping off the stool and giving Baldor a nod. “Hope he didn’t wear you out, sir.”

  Baldor waved her off. “Not yet. Still getting used to this slower pace of life.”

  “You’ll need to,” Grog said with a grin. “Nothing here moves fast unless you drop a pie.”

  Finn clapped a hand on the edge of the bar. “I think we’ve earned a drink. Two tankards of stout?”

  “I’ve got just the thing,” Grog said, hauling himself to his feet and disappearing behind the bar.

  They settled at a corner booth, Finn leaning into the cushions with a soft exhale. Baldor sat across from him, cradling his tankard as Grog returned with both drinks and a plate of sliced bread and herbed butter.

  “You’ve done well here,” Baldor said after his first sip. “This place feels… lived-in. Not like a business. Like a second home.”

  “That’s the goal,” Finn replied. “Wasn’t always like this. Took a lot of work. Lot of help, too.”

  Baldor gave a small nod. “From those two?”

  “Grog and Marla? Yeah. They’ve been with me since the early days. Helped pull me out of a few fires.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “I know.”

  There was a beat, and then Baldor looked down into his tankard.

  “You know, when your mother left, I kept telling myself that I’d been right to let her go. That she’d made her choice. But every year that passed, it got harder to believe.”

  Finn turned his eyes toward the window, where the shadows of the elms outside swayed with the wind. “She didn’t talk much about Pendrin.”

  “I wouldn’t expect her to. She resented how small it felt. She always wanted more for you.”

  “I think she got that, in the end,” Finn said, his voice a touch bitter. “I got more trouble than I knew what to do with.”

  Baldor’s jaw tightened. “I should’ve come. When she passed, I should’ve—”

  “You didn’t,” Finn cut in, but his voice wasn’t sharp. Just tired. “And I hated you for it. For a long time. Thought you’d just washed your hands of me.” Finn paused for a moment, realizing he was beginning to repeat himself. This anger of the past was cutting in and ruining the moment.

  “I did,” Baldor admitted. “That’s the worst part. I was ashamed of what you’d become. Thought if I ignored it, maybe it wouldn’t reflect on me.”

  Finn looked down at his own hands, the faint scars on his knuckles still visible despite the passing years. “I made mistakes. Stole things. Got into fights. I wanted to hurt people because I felt hurt. And you… you weren’t there.”

  “I know,” Baldor said. “And I have no excuse. But if it’s worth anything now… I’m proud of who you are. What you’ve built.”

  Finn blinked, caught off guard by the words. They sat between them like a gift left on the table—simple, direct, and unexpectedly heavy.

  “I never thought I’d hear you say that,” Finn said softly.

  “Well,” Baldor said with a half-smile, “we Tumblepots have a strange way of saying the things that matter.”

  “Usually years late?”

  “Exactly.”

  They chuckled, and the weight between them began to lift, just slightly.

  Outside, the sun finally dipped below the rooftops, casting the tavern in gentle twilight. A few late-night stragglers wandered past, their footsteps soft on the stone. The town was growing quiet, preparing for nightfall.

  Finn stood and gestured toward the door. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Baldor rose, following him out into the cooling air. They didn’t speak as they walked through the narrow back alleys and down toward the harbor, the sea lapping quietly against the dock pilings.

  They reached a wooden bench near the edge of the main pier. Finn sat first, stretching his legs out and folding his arms. Baldor joined him, gazing out over the darkening water, the sky now a deep shade of violet streaked with clouds.

  “Mother loved this view,” Finn said, almost to himself. “Used to bring me here to watch the ships. Said it made her feel small in a good way. However, this only happened when we took random occasional trips here from Laudendale.”

  “She told me once,” Baldor said, “that she didn’t fear the sea—she feared staying still. Said the sea always moves forward.”

  “I think she was right,” Finn said quietly.

  The waves quietly crashed below them, tugging at the pilings like lullabies. A soft wind moved across the docks, cool against their skin.

  “I’m sorry,” Baldor said, not looking at him.

  Finn turned, surprised.

  “For giving up,” Baldor said. “On her. On you. I’ve lived with that guilt a long time. Thought maybe it was too late to change it.”

  Finn watched him for a long moment. Then he nodded once, slowly.

  “I forgive you.”

  The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t meant to change everything in an instant. But they were honest, and they were enough.

  Baldor exhaled, long and quiet. “Thank you.”

  They sat there together for a while longer, the silence comfortable now. Father and son, no longer strangers. The docks swayed gently under their weight, and above them, stars began to prick the sky with quiet light.

  Finn glanced sideways.

  “You gonna stay for a while?”

  Baldor gave a slow smile. “I think I’d like to.”

  Baldor leaned forward on his knees, the sea breeze teasing the few strands of gray in his thick dark hair. He had always seemed larger in Finn’s memory — broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, a man who took up space in a room without trying. But here, in the quiet between words, he looked… gnomish. Worn, weathered, but still standing.

  After a long silence, Baldor let out a satisfied sigh and leaned back against the bench.

  “You know,” he said, patting his stomach, “I’ve been thinking about something all day.”

  Finn chuckled softly, watching his father out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental again.”

  “I’m not,” Baldor smirked. “I’m hungry.”

  That caught Finn off guard — he laughed, for real this time, the tension of the day melting out of his shoulders. “Is that so?”

  Baldor nodded firmly. “You’ve been going on about this tavern, your food, your fancy ‘haddock with a past’ or whatever you called it—”

  “‘Finn’s Haddock Filet,’” Finn corrected, grinning.

  “Yes, yes, that one. Word is, it’s been winning over nobles and town drunks alike, at least thats what Alden tells me. Meanwhile, I’ve been stuck back in Pendrin, choking down boiled barley and turnip stew for what feels like half my life.”

  Finn groaned with exaggerated horror. “Barley and turnip?”

  “Every other night. The inn by my forge has a cook who believes seasoning is a dangerous concept.”

  “That’s practically a crime,” Finn said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Baldor replied. “So, I’ve come to a decision.”

  Finn raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I want you to make me the best meal I’ve ever had.”

  The challenge hung there between them, not sharp or competitive, but filled with a kind of eager, boyish delight in Baldor’s voice. Finn leaned back, folding his arms, his expression softening.

  “Then you’d better be ready to have your life changed.”

  Baldor grinned wide, the lines around his eyes deepening. “That’s what I came here for, isn’t it?”

  They sat for a moment longer, content in the gentle creaking of the docks, before Finn rose to his feet and stretched.

  “We’ll head back,” he said. “I need to make some preparations.”

  “For tonight?” Baldor asked, rising with him.

  “No,” Finn said. “Tomorrow. You deserve a full day’s work behind a proper meal. And frankly, I want to do this right.”

  “You’re going to turn your kitchen into an altar, aren’t you?”

  “You’re damn right I am,” Finn replied, smiling. “Come on. Let’s get you some decent sleep. You’ve got a date with a proper dinner.”

  Back at The Velvet Ladle, the tavern had gone still. Grog and Marla were gone — a little note left at the counter read:

  We cleaned every dish and left you two enough stew to hold over. Welcome to Puddlebrook, Baldor. See you both in the morning. – G&M

  Finn smiled as he read it aloud. Baldor grunted his approval and headed toward the guest quarters Grog and Marla had readied in the back. Finn fetched the leftover stew, warmed it over the stove, and served it up with slices of Marla’s freshly baked bread.

  As they ate in companionable silence, Finn couldn’t help but feel the slow, quiet ache of something that had mended — not fully, not perfectly, but enough to keep going. A new foundation laid over old ruins.

  After dinner, Baldor retired early, and Finn stayed behind, a lantern burning low beside him as he jotted down notes. Ideas for tomorrow’s menu. Things he wanted to cook — not just well, but meaningfully.

  He wasn’t just preparing food.

  He was preparing memory. Offering a piece of himself, through flavor, through care, through craft.

  #

  Morning arrived gently, with a thin golden light leaking through the tavern windows. Finn was already up, sleeves rolled, apron tied. He moved with practiced purpose, the kitchen filling with the smells of garlic, onion, and butter sizzling in a skillet. Pots bubbled on the stove. Dough was rising on the prep counter. And at the center of it all, Finn stood with a calm, focused energy.

  He was making a feast — not in size, but in meaning.

  By the time Baldor shuffled in, hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep, the dining hall had been polished spotless again, a small table near the hearth set for two.

  “Smells like something illegal in here,” Baldor said, sniffing as he stretched.

  Finn grinned from behind the counter. “If it’s illegal to use more than salt and boiled roots, then yes — I’m breaking laws left and right.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Baldor muttered, taking a seat. “Whatever you’ve got cooking, it’s already ten times better than Pendrin’s best.”

  Finn emerged from the kitchen carrying two covered trays. He set them down in front of Baldor with a dramatic flourish.

  “Now presenting,” he declared, lifting the lids with a theatrical sweep, “the meal of your life.”

  Baldor blinked down at the plate before him. The main dish was a roasted pheasant breast, crisped golden and glazed with a reduction of plums and savory herbs, nestled against a bed of lemon-saffron wild rice. Roasted carrots and parsnips, drizzled with a honey-thyme glaze, circled the plate in an artful display. A fresh-baked onion-and-chive roll steamed invitingly beside a ramekin of seasoned whipped butter.

  Baldor stared, eyes wide. “You did this? For breakfast?”

  Finn folded his arms. “Every part.”

  “Well then,” Baldor said, reaching for his fork, “if I die after this meal, it’ll be a good death. I don’t even care that it's early.”

  The first bite brought silence — the kind of silence that needed no words. Finn watched as his father chewed slowly, eyebrows lifting as the flavors unfolded.

  “This…” Baldor said after a long pause, “is not just food. This is… how do I put it…”

  “An apology, a reunion, and a declaration of familial love?” Finn offered, smiling.

  “Something like that,” Baldor said with a mouthful. “I don’t know how you do it, lad. But this tastes like something I’ve been missing my whole life.”

  Finn sat opposite him with his own plate. “I think I’ve been cooking my way toward this moment for a long time.”

  They ate in comfortable quiet, the kind of stillness that meant everything was being said without needing to be spoken. The fire crackled, and outside the window, the town of Puddlebrook stirred into life.

  After the last bites were finished and the plates pushed aside, Baldor sat back with a satisfied grunt.

  “You know,” he said, resting a hand over his stomach, “I think I finally understand what Dorni meant when she said life’s too short for dull food.”

  Finn laughed. “She told me that too. Usually when I tried to sneak jam into her stew.”

  They both chuckled.

  “I wish she could see this,” Baldor added, voice quieting. “See you. See how far you’ve come.”

  Finn nodded, the weight of that thought sinking in. “I like to think she does.”

  Baldor looked around the tavern, then back to his son. “You’re going to do fine here, Finnrick. Better than fine.”

  Finn reached across the table, offering a mug of cider. “To second chances?”

  Baldor raised his own mug. “To better beginnings.”

  They clinked the mugs together, cider sloshing slightly over the edge, and in that moment, everything felt exactly as it should — not perfect, not fixed, but whole enough to go on.

  As the morning moved on and guests began to arrive for the early lunch rush, Finn slipped back into his role, calling out orders, greeting regulars, wiping down counters. But every few moments, he caught sight of Baldor watching from the corner table — not as a stranger, not as a disappointed father, but as someone rediscovering pride, admiration, and maybe even a little awe.

  And Finn, for the first time in a long while, felt like all the fractured pieces of his life had finally been given a chance to be reshaped — not erased, but made into something strong, something beautiful, something real.