When Catrine Hovland called Merrin in from the shed, twilight wavered across the backyard, turning the crabapple trees the color of bruises. He paused at the door, always wary lately, while she laid the battered copper pot in the center of their small table.

A sigh drew through the walls. Catrine ignored it, serving two heaping ladles into chipped bowls. The stew’s aroma curled and shifted, not quite settling, sometimes sweet as dandelion, other times acrid as blood.

Merrin lifted his spoon, glancing sidelong at her. “Where did you find this?” he asked, voice stretched thin.

Catrine’s lips twitched. “By the willow, just where Dinah said.”

He froze. Dinah, their daughter, had vanished six months ago, after whispering about the willow’s promises. Since that night, Merrin swore he caught glimpses of her reflection in still waters and heard her laughter threaded through the wind.

Now, as he tasted the stew, the flavor was familiar. It was of childhood and copper pennies, grief, and binding roots. His tongue burned with the memory. Across the table, Catrine watched closely, waiting not for praise, but for something to shift. The shadows rippled, stretching long fingers beneath his chair.

Outside, the willow creaked. Something knocked at the glass, gentle and persistent, until the pane shivered.

Catrine poured more wine, ignoring the soft giggle that bubbled up from the bowl. “Eat,” she said, “before it answers back.”