Chapter 0: Threads of home

Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, painting soft patterns on the kitchen floor. The aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the faint scent of lavender from the small vase on the windowsill. Abigail sat at the kitchen table, her elbows resting on the surface, her chin cupped in her hands.

“Abby,” her aunt called, voice warm and teasing, “are you planning to stare at that bread all morning, or are you actually going to eat it?”

“I’m thinking,” Abigail replied without looking up. “Bread looks…intimidating today.”

Her aunt chuckled, sliding a plate across the table. “Intimidating? It’s toast, not a dragon. Don’t tell me you’ve finally discovered the courage to slay morning bread.”

Abigail glanced at the plate and smirked. “I don’t know if I have the strength for such a mighty quest.”

“That’s my brave girl,” her aunt said, shaking her head with a grin. “Always a hero in your own way. Now, at least take a bite before it gets cold.”

Abigail picked up a piece of toast, cautiously taking a small bite. Her aunt watched her, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You eat like you’re defusing a bomb,” she said.

“Maybe I am,” Abigail said, chewing slowly. “What if it explodes?”

Her aunt laughed so hard she had to lean on the counter for support. “Then I’ll call the fire department. But honestly, if a piece of toast blows up, I’ll blame you entirely.”

“You’d never,” Abigail teased, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“I would,” her aunt said solemnly, wagging a finger. “Absolutely. And don’t even think about blaming the cat. He’s innocent.”

The small black cat, Whiskers, stretched lazily on the windowsill, seemingly unconcerned by the conversation. Abigail’s aunt reached over and scratched behind his ears. “See? Innocent. All the trouble falls to you, Abigail.”

“I accept full responsibility,” Abigail said, rolling her eyes playfully. “For everything.”

Her aunt leaned back in her chair, studying her with a mixture of fondness and quiet concern. “You know,” she said softly, “you’ve grown so much this past year. Sometimes I feel like I blinked, and suddenly my little girl is…well, not so little anymore.”

Abigail’s smile faltered slightly. “I’m still…me,” she whispered.

“Of course you are,” her aunt said firmly, reaching across the table to squeeze Abigail’s hand. “But I just mean…you’re changing, learning, discovering who you are. And I’m lucky to watch it.”

Abigail squeezed back, feeling warmth pool in her chest. “I’m lucky to have you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her aunt’s smile softened. “And I’m lucky to have you. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Abigail said, nodding. “I know.”

The morning stretched on with small routines: Abigail buttering her toast carefully, her aunt humming a tune while arranging dishes, the cat purring as it rubbed against her legs. At some point, her aunt brought out a sketchbook.

“I found this in the closet,” she said, placing it on the table. “I think it belongs to you. Or maybe it belongs to the artist who hides in the corner of this house and draws everything he—or she—sees.”

Abigail blinked, surprised. “You…found it?”

“Yes,” her aunt said, raising an eyebrow. “It was under a pile of old magazines, as if it were ashamed to be seen. Maybe it was waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.”

Abigail picked it up gently, flipping through the pages. Sketches of landscapes, flowers, and little scenes from everyday life stared back at her. She had forgotten she had drawn them, yet seeing them again made her heart swell.

“You’ve always had a way of noticing things others miss,” her aunt said softly. “Look at these…these are beautiful. You see the world differently, and that’s a gift. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Abigail blushed. “Thanks…sometimes I think they’re just…scribbles.”

“They’re more than scribbles,” her aunt said firmly. “They’re a glimpse of your soul, Abby. Don’t ever forget that.”

They spent the next hour sketching together. Abigail copied a small rose from the garden outside, while her aunt tried to recreate a sunflower, laughing at how badly it turned out.

“You call that a sunflower?” Abigail teased, holding back laughter.

“It’s…abstract,” her aunt said, smiling. “Art is subjective, you know. One person’s sunflower is another person’s…well, whatever you think this is.”

“It looks like…a sunflower having an identity crisis,” Abigail said, giggling.

“Exactly!” her aunt exclaimed. “You get me.”

Afterward, they cleaned up, chatting about everything and nothing. Her aunt told stories from her own childhood, some funny, some poignant, always ending with a moral or a little nugget of wisdom. Abigail listened, entranced. The stories painted her aunt not just as family, but as a friend, a guide, a constant presence in her world.

As the afternoon sun streamed through the windows, Abigail and her aunt moved to the garden. They sat on a small bench, hands clasped, watching the flowers sway gently in the breeze.

“Abby,” her aunt said, breaking the comfortable silence, “have you thought about what you want to do this summer? Any plans?”

Abigail shrugged. “I thought maybe…we could just stay home, bake, paint…spend time together.”

Her aunt’s eyes softened. “I’d like that. Nothing fancy. Just us. That’s enough.”

Abigail leaned her head on her aunt’s shoulder. “It always is,” she whispered.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the world outside their little garden fading away. The warmth of the sun, the scent of flowers, and the gentle murmur of life around them made it feel like nothing could ever touch this bubble of peace.

“I love you, Aunt Lila,” Abigail said softly.

“I love you too, Abby. More than words can say.”

The sun dipped lower, casting golden streaks across the garden. Abigail felt a rare calm settle in her chest, a sense of safety and belonging that she had never experienced anywhere else. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not school, not friends, not the future—just her and her aunt, laughing, talking, sharing a world that belonged only to them.

As they walked back inside, her aunt paused and looked at Abigail. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” Abigail said.

“Promise me you’ll never lose sight of who you are. Life will throw things at you…people, challenges, mistakes—but you’re strong. You have that strength already. Don’t let it slip away.”

“I promise,” Abigail said, her voice steady, but her heart full.

That night, Abigail lay in bed, the locket her aunt had given her clutched in her hand. She thought about the day—the laughter, the sketches, the shared stories—and for the first time in a long time, she felt truly content.

Tomorrow, and every day after, would be another adventure with her aunt. And Abigail knew, deep down, that no matter what happened, they would face it together.