Hungering Teeth.

Welcome home, Agnus.

November 17th, 1777

The morning broke with a crisp chill, a fain t mist clinging to the brittle branches that lined the narrow road. The leaves, ablaze with hues of red and burnt orange, crunched beneath the carriage wheels.

Inside, Agnus sat rigid, his eyes fixed on the frost-laden window, his breath fogging the glass in rhythmic pulses. His silence was cold as the dawn, and beside him, the middle-aged woman, dressed in a worn woolen coat, spoke softly as though her words might mend the brokenness that clung to him.

"You'll be safe with your grandparents," she said, adjusting her shawl as the cold crept in.

"They've been eagerly awaiting your arrival."

Agnus didn't respond. Her voice was like a distant echo, one he hardly heard.

His eyes traced the passing trees, but they were dull, emptied of whatever light might have once lingered there.

He didn't fidget, didn't move.

He was still.

The world outside blurred by his grief. His hands trembled ever so slightly, but not from the cold— no, it was something deeper. A chill that had nothing to do with the frost in the air.

The woman cleared her throat, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "You know, it's good to be with family, especially now. I'm sure they'll take good care of you."

Still nothing. He was like stone.

Finally, the carriage drew to a halt in front of a small farmhouse nestled at the edge of the forest. The building, worn by years of harsh seasons, sat at the edge of a forest, its wooden porch sagging slightly under the weight of time. Yet, for all its age, there was warmth there— and invitation Agnus was too numb to feel.

Agnus could see them already— his grandparents, Mabel and Larry, sitting on the porch.

Mabel waved eagerly, her eyes alight with the joy of a woman who had been waiting far too long.
Larry sat beside her. His face softer than he had remembered, though lined with the wear of age.

"Come now, Agnus," the social worker urged gently. "They're waiting."

Agnus stepped out into the cold air, his boots sinking into the earth with a soft crunch.
He walked slowly toward them, his gaze never quite meeting theirs.

Mabel rushed forward, her arms outstretched. "Agnus, my dear! Oh, you must be so cold."

She pulled him into a gentle embrace, her chin resting for a moment on the top of his head.

"Look at you, all grown up and handsome! Isn't he, Larry?" She radiated an almost childlike excitement.

She cupped his face in her hands, her touch warm, as though she might chase away the frost that clung to him.

Larry nodded, his eyes crinkling in agreement. "Quite right, Mabel. Good to have you, son." He said.

They both enveloped him in the kind of love that should have brought comfort, but to him, it felt distant.

The social worker gave her farewells, a brief nod to Mabel and Larry before departing.
Mabel ushered him toward the house. "Come come. There's a warm fire and plenty to eat."

Inside the house, warmth greeted him. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the rich smell of food filled the air, but none of it seemed to reach Agnus. The colors of quilts she had laid out for him, the careful stitched she had woven into the fabric— it all felt so far away, as though they belonged to someone else's life.