Woodholm
She wakes early as she always does, at dusk. She rises slowly, skillfully ignoring the whispers of sleep that try to take her back. Instead, her feet touch the wooden floor, which creaks once she shifts her weight onto them. Her toes are cold, but she gets up dutifully, dresses herself for the cold, and goes downstairs. Her father sits in an old rocking chair, shifting like an old pendulum. He is only lightly sleeping, and she wakes him with a kiss to his rough, wrinkled forehead. He stirs, but cracks a tired eye nonetheless.
"Good morning, child." He happily bellows, and stands to crush her in a hug. Ever since he regained his daughter, he hardly wants to let her go again. She returns the contact with equal vigor, as when she is with her father, she feels safe from that darkness.
The two leave the house to face a mere crack of sunrise, and begin to work. The Woodsman places the face of his axe on the grindstone, and holds it in place as he turns the wheel. The sparks provide some small light, while The Daughter turns the lever of a well. Once the axe sharp enough to cut stone, The Woodsman sets off into the woods. But not too far, never again will he go too far.
The Daughter has fetched two heavy pails of water, and heaves them to a side of house. She wipes the sweat of her brow and sets one bucket aside for bathing. The other she moves in between her feet, and crouches over it. She stares at her reflection in the water for a moment, and the reflection stares back, before she takes a shirt off the clothesline and scrubs it with soap.
He returns in the afternoon with a bundle of logs on his back, and dirt on his knees from planting new seeds. He has enough logs for the fireplace and for cooking, and enough to sell for pheasants tomorrow. There is one in his hand now, hanging by its neck. She saved him enough water to bathe, and he does so while she sets the avian on the counter to prepare it. She is done by the time he is, and they eat.
The two of them across from each other on an old but sturdy table. The scent of cooked bird drifts into the air. A single candle sits on the dead center of the tabletop. The cackle of fire sounds from the distance. This is a family.
This is what he missed when she was gone. Without her, the house was empty and cold, and no matter how many logs he through into the flame. The wind blew the door open sometimes, and he would run to the door to see if she had somehow come home. Mice would run into pots and pans, and he would rush to the kitchen only to frown at how empty it was. When he went to his bedroom, he did not sleep, but instead stare out the window, hoping for a figure to make its way home, but all he saw was trees and dark nothing. Then one night, he stared out at this black nothings, and the nothing stared back- brandishing a lantern.
But that was then, and this was now. Now he has his daughter back. Now, they are eating together after a hard day of work and survival. Now, they are being a family.
And over dinner, he reaches across and puts his rough arm over her delicate fingers (She has strong knuckles though), and keeps the contact, makes sure that she is still here, and he is not dreaming.
And he tells her the story of two boys and their frog.