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Nightmare

"You know, Jacques, if we keep this up, we could probably open a firewood shop. Think we'd make a killing?" Noah grins as he hoists another log into his pile.

"Only if we charge extra for delivery." Jacques smirks as he adjusts the bundle on his shoulder.

Jacques and Noah emerge from the dense woods, their figures outlined against the fading light of the late afternoon. The sun, now dipping low on the horizon, casts long shadows across the rugged path they tread. Their boots crunch on the dried leaves and twigs underfoot, the sound mingling with the distant chirping of crickets and the rustling of the wind through the trees.

Both boys carry bundles of firewood strapped to their backs, the rough bark pressing against their worn clothes. Their hands are smudged with dirt, and the earthy scent of the forest clings to them. Noah walks with his usual spring in his step, despite the load he carries, his carefree grin contrasting with the sweat beading on his forehead. Jacques, more reserved, trudges alongside him, his eyes scanning the horizon with a quiet, thoughtful gaze.

As they break free from the last of the trees, the open fields stretch before them, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the setting sun. The sky above is a blend of orange and pink, with streaks of purple hinting at the approaching dusk. The air is cooler now, a gentle breeze sweeping over the land, rustling the tall grasses that surround them.

In the distance, the silhouette of their village comes into view—a cluster of humble rooftops with thin trails of smoke rising from chimneys. The smell of cooking fires drifts toward them, mixed with the faint scent of freshly turned soil from nearby farms. It's a familiar, comforting aroma that speaks of home.

Jacques shifts the weight of the firewood on his shoulders, his muscles aching from the day's work, but there's a sense of accomplishment in his movements. Noah, ever the optimist, nudges him with an elbow, cracking a joke that makes Jacques chuckle despite himself. Their banter fills the quiet evening air as they make their way down the dirt path leading home.

"We're back." both sing in unison.

As they step through the threshold of their modest home, the familiar scent of fresh bread and herbs fills the air. Standing by the hearth, stirring a pot with practiced ease, is their mother, Elise. Her auburn hair, streaked with silver, is pulled back into a loose bun, and her hazel eyes light up as she sees her sons.

"Welcome home, boys," Elise says, her voice gentle but firm. She wipes her hands on her apron, glancing at the dirt smudges on their faces. "Go and wash up—no dinner until you're clean." A warm smile tugs at her lips, though her tone carries the no-nonsense edge of a mother who's had to raise two boys on her own. "I've got stew ready, and it's not waiting for you to dawdle."

.....

Jacques sat at the worn wooden table in their small kitchen, his fingers absently tracing the grain of the wood. His mother, Elise, stood by the stove, her back to him as she stirred a pot of stew. The familiar warmth of the room, the scent of herbs, and the soft crackling of the fire felt comforting, almost lulling him into a sense of safety.

"You've been quiet tonight, Jacques," Elise said, her voice gentle as she turned to face him. "Is something on your mind?"

Jacques looked up, meeting her hazel eyes. They were kind, filled with the same warmth they always had, but there was something... different. He couldn't quite place it. "Just tired, I guess," he replied, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in his chest.

Elise smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Tired of what, my boy?"

The room seemed to dim slightly, the shadows in the corners deepening. Jacques blinked, trying to focus. "Everything," he murmured, his voice quieter than he intended. "It feels like no matter what we do, it's never enough."