Page 14 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

DROGATH

T he sounds of celebration float to me through the trees like echoes from a memory I haven’t let myself believe could be mine.

Laughter, music, the unmistakable clatter of boots dancing on barnwood, someone hollering about apple fritters like it’s a holy calling.

All of it hums under the hum of crickets and soft breeze, carried from the gala down the hill in bursts of gold and joy.

It’s the kind of sound that used to feel like it belonged to someone else’s world—a world of hearths and homes and warm hands held too long.

But now I sit in the orchard, just beyond the lantern light, and I want to believe I belong here.

Not as a guest or as an outsider looking in.

But as something— someone —rooted.

The crate beneath me groans as I shift, boots planted firm in soil damp with the last of yesterday’s rain.

I’ve got a carving knife in one hand, a half-formed block of maple in the other, and for once, the fire in my chest isn’t demanding action.

It just flickers steady and low, asking only that I stay.

The wood in my palm is still rough in places, edges not yet softened, the bloom inside it only just beginning to emerge.

A flower—petals not wide open yet, but curling, delicate, alive.

I’ve framed it inside a gentle arc of grain, a curved loop that cradles it, like the idea of protection without possession.

Not a cage, exactly. Not something that locks.

Just something that holds , steady and safe, while the soft things inside have room to bloom.

It’s clumsy. Imperfect. But honest.

And gods, that feels new.

I carve another curl of wood from the edge and let it fall into the little pile by my boot, and I wonder how many versions of myself I’ve whittled away just trying to get to this one.

The one that isn’t sharp. Isn’t armored. Isn’t running.

The next morning, the sky’s the color of old cream, thick with low clouds and the promise of frost. My breath fogs out in short bursts as I walk the back path to Bramley’s orchard, past rows of trees drooping with the weight of autumn’s last fruit, their leaves turned brittle and blazing.

Bramley’s already up, of course. He always is.

Stubborn old dwarf probably hasn’t slept a full night in twenty years.

He’s hauling a cord of ciderwood from the stack behind the press barn, a chipped enamel mug steaming on the fencepost beside him and an axe embedded in the chopping stump like an exclamation mark.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says without looking up, voice as dry and gravelly as the path beneath my boots.

I reach for the axe without a word and line up the first log.

He watches me split it clean through before he nods, slow. “Better form than last week.”

“Didn’t know I was being judged.”

He snorts. “Everyone’s judged. That’s just livin’. Difference is, you’re finally worth measuring.”

I pause at that, the handle warm in my grip, the blade buried deep in the heart of a knotty round. His words settle like weight on my shoulders—not heavy, just real.

We split wood for a while without speaking.

There’s something sacred in the rhythm: the thud of blade against stump, the snap of bark giving way, the sharp, sweet scent of ciderwood rising like incense.

The cold bites my knuckles, sharpens my breath, and yet there’s a kind of warmth building too—something earned, slow and clean.

After a while, he huffs, then says, “You look like a man carving roots, not profits.”

I stop mid-swing, blade hovering over the next log, and look up at him.

And for once, I don’t dodge it. Don’t bury it in some dismissive grunt or sarcastic jab. I just meet his gaze and say, “Maybe I am.”

Bramley squints like he’s trying to see straight into my ribs. Then he jerks his chin toward the barn. “You’ll need a better knife if you’re gonna keep carving.”

“I’ve got one.”

He nods. “Then you’d best keep going.”

Back at the inn that evening, the fire’s already crackling low in the hearth. I drag an old patchwork rug to the floor in front of it and sit cross-legged like I used to as a boy, carving in the corner of my mother’s forge while she hammered steel and whispered old songs under her breath.

Funny, the things you carry with you.

The carving rests in my lap—flower and frame now shaped with more precision.

I’ve smoothed the roughest bits, hollowed out the curve of the petals, added tiny veins to the leaves.

I keep thinking about how Tessa touches the dried blossoms in her shop—gently, reverently, like even things long dead deserve kindness.

This one’s not dead.

It’s blooming.

And so help me, it’s blooming for her.

I stare into the flames for a long time, the shadows dancing across the floor like ghosts I don’t fear anymore.

The sounds of the village drift in through the window—distant and familiar now, no longer a foreign language.

Dogs barking, a child’s squeal of laughter, a fiddle warming up again even though the gala’s long over.

It feels like a town that could hold a future.

One with flannel mornings and fresh-cut herbs, the clatter of shop bells and the low hum of someone humming while she arranges eucalyptus behind a foggy windowpane.

I reach for the flower carving and cradle it in my palm.

Not a gift yet.

Not until I find the words to go with it.

But close.

I press my thumb to the base of the bloom, feeling the grain, the shape, the hours carved into every line. Then, quietly, to no one in particular, I murmur, “I’d stay.”

Not for the resort. Not for a project. Not for redemption.

“For her.”

And maybe for the version of myself I can finally bear to look at in the mirror.

Tomorrow, I’ll finish the carving.

And maybe soon, I’ll be brave enough to hand it to her.

But tonight, I hold it close to my chest, let the fire burn low, and let the stillness wash through me like something holy.

I’m not just chasing something.

I’m letting myself be here.

And I think I might finally be ready to stay.