"Why on earth would you want that headache?" Mrs. Gable, the neighbor from next door, grumbled. "You're city people; you have no idea what a house in the country actually entails! Hauling water, chopping wood, stoking a furnace..."
"Mrs. Gable..."
"Shoveling snow in the winter, mucking through the mud in the spring..."
Jane only smiled. Mrs. Gable was a blunt, plain-spoken woman. Having spent most of her life in the countryside, she knew the "charms" of rural labor in grueling detail. After her husband passed away and she moved in with her daughter in the city, she couldn't stop marveling at the ease of modern life. Here, hot water flowed straight from the tap, the radiators hummed with reliable heat, and the floors were actually warm! Cleaning an apartment was a breeze compared to a house where chores could stretch on for days. And maintenance? No patching roofs or propping up sagging porches. It was paradise.
But how do you explain to someone like that that a country house is a dream? From the time she was a little girl, for as long as Jane could remember, she and her brother had wanted a house. A big, cozy one, always with a fireplace and a massive library. They had imagined it so vividly, down to the smallest detail. Every evening, they'd invent new features, sketching out plans for the decor...
"And in the attic," Mark would say, tucking his three-year-old sister into her blankets, "we'll set up a telescope so you can look at the stars."
"And you'll have a woodworking shop," Jane would promise sleepily.
After those talks, she would drift off into a sweet sleep, dreaming of a vast starry sky, hearing the crackle of logs in the hearth, and breathing in the scent of old, beloved books.
Autumn this year was divine: a symphony of blue and gold. The high sky was so piercingly clear and azure that it felt as if your eyes would water if you stared into it too long. The trees had traded their summer greens for magnificent robes of crimson and gold.
Jane wandered over a colorful carpet of fallen leaves, unable to believe that her and her brother's childhood dream had finally come true. They had bought a house in the country! It was exactly as they had imagined it as children. It had the fireplace, the winding staircase to the second floor, a spacious porch, and apple trees in the garden. Mark had found this miracle by pure chance: someone at his office was moving abroad and was in a hurry to sell off their real estate.
"I went to look at it," Mark told his sister, "and I just couldn't believe my eyes! Things like this don't happen. It wasn't just a similar house—it was the house from our dreams! I didn't even haggle. Honestly, Jane, I would've paid extra just to make sure it was ours. It felt like it belonged to us the second I walked in, you know? It was just waiting for us."
Jane laughed. Mark, her dear, favorite older brother, was still the same romantic he had been as a child. Nothing had changed him: not his stint in the military, nor the necessity of starting a new career path after college. Not even an early marriage and a traumatic, terrible divorce that had left him broke and disillusioned with family life for a long time. Maybe romanticism is like DNA—something you carry for life.
Regardless, the thrill of the realized dream was incredible. Mark sped back and forth to the city like a man possessed, bringing back a new rocking chair, then huge boxes filled with books, then patchwork quilts and fluffy rugs.
Jane suddenly discovered that what she loved most in the world was baking apple pies, making jam, and drying fragrant herbs for evening tea.
"You know," she admitted to her brother one day, "I find myself thinking more and more about moving here permanently when I retire. I feel so good here. It's... I don't know how to put it..."
"Life makes sense here?" Mark suggested.
"Yes. Even though I know it's silly to think about retirement at twenty-five, I still do. Just so I never have to leave."
Her brother gave her a cheerful wink. He understood her perfectly. How could he not? He and his sister had been best friends their entire lives.
"I brought you the telescope, by the way," Mark mentioned casually over dinner.
"No way!" Jane dropped her fork in surprise. "Are you serious... Mark!"
"Well, I promised you when we were kids," he smiled. "Did you think I forgot? Nope. Let's finish our tea and go set it up, okay?"
Jane nodded excitedly and ran to put the kettle on.
"Mark, I dried some lemon balm for the tea. I'll go grab it! It's in my room, wait a second."
Jane's bedroom was on the second floor. It had a massive window overlooking a field of daisies. Jane had fallen in love with the room instantly. On a large oak table, she laid out her herbs to dry: oregano, lemon balm, mint, and currant leaves. Jane broke off a sprig of mint and then froze. She thought she heard a rustling sound coming from the attic.
Maybe there are mice up there? No, how could there be... Mark checked everything.
She listened again, more intently. The rustling sounded more like light footsteps, and they were mixed with other sounds. Quiet, but distinct...
Voices!
"Mark!" She flew down the stairs like the wind.
Mark, having not waited for the lemon balm, was finishing his tea. Seeing his breathless sister, he frowned.
"What is it? Why are you so pale?"
"Mark, I think there's someone in our attic! It sounds like someone is walking around, and I heard voices. Like people talking in whispers..."
"Right," Mark stood up from the table. "Are you sure you didn't imagine it?"
"No, I'm positive! I'm telling you, footsteps and voices, and..."
"Stay here. I'll go up and check."
He headed up the stairs quickly, and soon Jane heard the heavy attic hatch creak open.
She couldn't sit still for more than two minutes. Anxiety for her brother outweighed her own fear, and Jane, arming herself with a rolling pin just in case, headed for the attic. The hatch was wide open. Mark's voice, quiet and calm with a questioning tone, put her at ease. Everything was fine. There was no danger.
"Jane! Come on up, we have guests!"
Mark walked into the kitchen leading two small girls by the hand, maybe five or six years old.
"Have a seat," he invited the guests, turning to his stunned sister. "Jane, do we have any of that pie left?"
"We didn't mean to scare you," the older one explained hurriedly. "The house was just empty before, no one lived here. And the attic is nice, the wind doesn't get in. And there are apples in the garden..."
The little girls were sisters: the older one was Annie, the younger was Nina. Watching how quickly the children polished off the pie, Jane realized they hadn't had a full meal in a long time. Without a word, Mark brought out bread, ham, and cheese, and started making sandwiches.
"Where is your mom?" Jane asked.
The younger girl's eyes immediately filled with tears. Annie patted her sister on the shoulder.
"Mom drowned in the river. She went swimming and didn't come back. Dad found her later."
"So your dad is around?" Mark said, sounding relieved. "Where is he?"
"Dad's at home. He's very nice, but when he drinks... it's scary," Annie said softly.
"Does he drink often? Eat, please, eat," Jane pushed the plate of sandwiches toward the sisters.
"Not often," little Nina piped up. "But when he starts..."
"It's for about three days," Annie finished.
Mark looked at his sister.
"I'm going to go see how their father is doing," he said grimly.
Jane gently touched his sleeve.
"Don't. You'll lose your temper and it'll turn into a fight. Let me go instead, and you stand by the gate. If anything happens, you'll hear me."
"Fine," Mark agreed after a moment's thought. "But let's go in the morning. Let their father... sleep it off first."
The door wasn't locked, but Jane knocked anyway. She was nervous about going in, not knowing what state the house would be in. There was no answer. She had to summon her courage and knock harder. Finally, she heard shuffling footsteps, and a minute later, the owner appeared: a sullen, bleary-eyed man in his middle years. He stared blankly at his feet, and even the appearance of a strange woman didn't seem to register.
"Hello," Jane said loudly.
Without answering, the man turned his back and walked into the living room. Jane followed him inside. The owner was already sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall.
"I came to tell you that your children are with us... in case you were worried."
At those words, a spark of awareness returned to the man's eyes.
"Children? My children are asleep. It's still early morning... What are you talking about, lady? Who are you, anyway?"
"Your daughters, Annie and Nina, were hiding in the attic of my house," Jane began to feel a surge of anger, finding it hard to hold back her rebukes. "Hiding from your drinking. My brother found them, and they spent the night with us. Right now, they aren't sleeping; they're sitting in my kitchen, drinking cocoa and eating. Because they were cold and hungry while you, their father, were drinking."
"Lady..."
The man stood up. He swayed, but kept his balance. He rubbed his forehead wearily.
"Come with me, lady."
"Where? I'm not going anywhere with—"
"To the kids' room. You'll see for yourself that they're home and asleep."
Jane followed him obediently. She couldn't help but notice that the house was tidy, though there were shards of broken dishes on the kitchen floor. Overall, the place was clean and cozy.
He must have been a good provider... before he started drinking, Jane thought.
The man threw open the door to the children's room and froze on the threshold when he saw the neatly made beds. Peering over his shoulder, Jane noticed the room was large and bright. Stuffed animals sat on the girls' beds. There were small desks and a large bookshelf, clearly handmade by their father, filled with books, colored pencils, sketchbooks, and paints. The man turned to his guest in horror.
"Where are my children?" he asked, his voice cracking with fear. "Did you kidnap them? What do you want? Take everything, just give me back my kids!"
"Calm down! You should be ashamed of yourself! You're a grown man, a father of two, and you've let yourself go like this. What are you doing? Drowning your grief while your own daughters hide in attics!"
"My God..."
The father clutched his head. A muffled groan escaped his lips.
"Stop it," Jane said, softening. "Come with me, you'll see the girls."
"Annie! Nina!" The father hugged both girls and burst into tears.
"Daddy, don't cry! Please don't cry!"
"I've failed you," the man said, pulling himself together. "I promise, I will never touch a drop of alcohol again as long as I live. Never! And we'll be happy again."
Mark, who had been watching the scene in silence, walked up to the man and shook his hand.
"If you need help, let me know," he said simply.
The city greeted Jane with rain and overcast skies. The gray slush had lasted a week already, and Jane envied her brother, who had stayed behind in the country. Mark was on vacation and had decided to spend it fixing up the dream house.
"I'll come up for the weekend," Jane promised. "I'll take a few days off. I'll help you out."
For some reason, she didn't want to admit that beyond helping her brother, there was another reason drawing her back: the little girls next door. How were they doing now?
On Saturday, loaded down with shopping bags, she stepped out of her car to meet her brother.
"What's all this?" Mark asked, taking the heavy bags from her.
"Well, you know, Mark, I decided to bring some treats for the girls. For Annie and Nina. I keep wondering how they're doing."
"They're doing great. Owen turned out to be a decent guy. I think he just snapped from the grief... He's sober now, the girls are fed and dressed. They come over all the time asking for you."
"Really?" Jane asked suspiciously. Her brother smiled.
"If you don't believe me, go over there right now. They'll be thrilled."
This time, the door was opened immediately.
"Miss Jane, you're here!"
Nina and Annie were already running toward her, arms open for a hug. Behind them walked their father, looking sheepish.
"Hello, Jane," he greeted her.
Today he was completely sober; it was clear he hadn't touched a drop. Jane noticed his clothes were neat, he'd had a haircut, and she even caught the pleasant scent of aftershave.
"Hello, Owen. I brought a few things for your daughters."
"Would you like to come in? We were just about to have lunch. Will you join us?"
"I'd love to!" Jane answered sincerely.
"Owen, where did you learn to cook like this?" Jane asked once the girls, having enjoyed their visitor and their gifts, had run off to play in their room.
"I'm a chef," the man laughed. "I work at a restaurant."
"A restaurant? But here in the country..."
"Oh, we're city people," Owen explained. "Our apartment is being renovated, so I brought the family here for a while. We'll be heading back to the city soon."
Jane basked in the atmosphere of peace and kindness. Owen really was a wonderful cook. A vase of fresh wildflowers sat on the table. The girls looked content and happy.
"You have no idea," Jane admitted, "how happy I am that everything is okay! You're so incredibly strong for being able to reclaim your life. Your girls are happy, it's written all over them!"
"Thank you for the kind words," the man replied modestly. "But if it weren't for you..."
"Let's not talk about that, please," Jane's voice was soft but firm. "You went through a tragedy, but when you saw the consequences, you took control. It wasn't me. If talking were enough for everyone... no, Owen, this is your achievement, and yours alone."
All week, Annie and Nina ran over first thing in the morning. Mark had gone back to the city, having finished the rest of the work on the house. Jane had plenty of free time to spend with the girls: they read books together, drew pictures, and Jane taught them how to bake pastries and apple pie. Around lunchtime, Owen would come for his daughters. He would take the kids, and Jane too. The afternoons were spent at their house. They played board games and looked at family photos. Jane didn't head home until after dinner.
Mark came to pick up his sister that evening. She had already said her goodbyes to the neighbors, and as she got into the car, she took one last look at Owen's house. The windows were brightly lit. They were probably all in the kitchen together, cooking something fun, or sitting at the table having tea. Or maybe they were getting ready for bed, and Owen, sitting on the floor between the two beds, was reading Moominvalley out loud. Owen...
Owen and his little girls had become so close to her, almost like family.
She didn't want to leave at all.
"You'll see them again," Mark consoled her, noticing her sadness.
"Yeah," she sighed. "I just think I'm going to miss them."
Mark didn't answer. He knew his sister, and he could see this was more than just a neighborly friendship. She had grown attached to the little ones, and to Owen too.
Let them decide what happens next.
He didn't know what to advise Jane. And even if he did, he wouldn't have dared. Someone else's children are a massive responsibility: it's one thing to spend a week playing and having fun, and quite another to accept them as your own, to raise and nurture them.
Let them decide.
"Autumn is gold, but winter is silver," Jane thought, looking out at the snow-covered garden.
Big changes had happened in Mark's life: he had met a woman he was planning to marry soon. Bright, cheerful Sarah was a perfect match for him. Jane was certain her brother's family life would be a success this time. Now, the happy couple was busy with the pleasant chores of decorating the house for the holidays.
Mark had brought a tree from the woods, and Sarah had woven beautiful wreaths from evergreen branches and winter berries.
"I feel like," Mark told his sister privately, "if Sarah and I spend New Year's here, everything will turn out right for us. But don't you dare think you're in the way, Jane! We're celebrating together, period."
Jane had no choice but to agree. It was a little bittersweet. She had hoped so much to see Owen and his girls, but a large padlock hung on their door, and judging by the snow-covered path, they had left a long time ago. The renovations on their city apartment must have finished. Where were they now? Jane imagined Owen and the girls decorating their own tree. The presents were surely bought and waiting. The girls were excited for the holiday, and Owen was watching them with pride.
I hope they're doing wonderfully.
There was a loud knock at the door. Jane hurried to open it.
"Who is it, Jane?" Mark called from the kitchen.
"Miss Jane, it's us!"
Annie and Nina burst into the house, their cheeks flushed pink from the frost. Owen, carrying a massive sack of gifts and smiling, stepped over the threshold.
"Is there room for a Santa and two little elves?" he asked.
"Happy New Year!" the girls shouted.
Mark whisked them away to the garden to set off fireworks. Sarah stood nearby, clapping her hands. Owen and Jane watched the celebration from the window. They had so much to say to each other. Though, in truth, the important things had already been said without a single word. Owen, Jane, the children... a family.
"We are a family, aren't we?" Owen asked, holding out a small velvet box to Jane.
"Yes," she replied, smiling.
Holding each other, they watched the girls cheer at the fireworks. On that happy New Year's night, everyone was happy. Each in their own way.
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