The elderly woman slipped inside, shutting the cold air out behind her. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the frost, fine lines deepening across her brow.

  The edges of her thick shawl still seemed to carry the chill indoors. She paused upon entering, straightened herself, and placed her hands firmly on her hips with an authoritative air. With a weary yet dignified expression, she pursed her lips and spoke.

  “Ah, you mischievous thing! I went to such trouble to wrap your head properly… and now you’re going to scratch at the scabbed wound and make it bleed again, aren’t you? Don’t just stand there like that, dear — your head may spin. You’ll faint again.”

  Her voice carried warmth, though it underscored her authority.

  That sincere yet disciplined manner of hers warmed me from within. With a faint smile, I nodded from where I sat.

  “You’re right. I’ll go back to bed at once. By the way, the way you wrapped my bandage is remarkably skilful. Are you a healer?”

  At this, she let out a gentle laugh — a sound as comforting as the crackle of the hearth.

  “Yes, dear,” said Arwa Ana with a soft smile.

  “I am a healer. Whenever someone in this area falls ill, or when a woman is about to give birth, they come to me. My mother taught me this craft, and she learned it from hers. I do not know whether my hands are truly healing, but with the knowledge and experience the Gods have granted me, I try to help where I can. And speaking of bandages, I must change the dressing on your head. Now sit still, dear.”

  She spoke as a mother might comfort a child — gentle yet firm. Her warmth gave me confidence, and gratitude stirred within me.

  “Thank you for helping me in my present condition. Had it not been for you, I might have died. And there is no need to trouble yourself with such an elaborate breakfast. A bit of bread and cheese would suffice.”

  Arwa Ana frowned, pursed her lips, and smacked her apron lightly in protest.

  “Young man, do you hear what you’re saying? Anyone in our place would have done the same. And only the Gods decide who lives or dies. You are fortunate — the Gods wished you to live. Please cast those gloomy thoughts from your mind.

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  You are a gift from the Gods to us. We have not had a guest in a long while; the Gods sent you. I shall prepare a proper breakfast for you. That old Daneel will be here shortly. When he arrives, we always eat together. What do you say to that?”

  Her voice reminded me of old prayers mothers whisper to soothe their children. The sincerity in her words eased me. I bowed my head slightly.

  “Thank you, madam,” I said, and returned to the bed.

  She nodded in satisfaction, rubbed her arms briskly, and moved confidently into the kitchen area. Soon she was working by the stove. The room filled with the fragrance of spices drifting from jars unlike any I had seen before. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to rest.

  Before long, Daneel entered. His clothes were old but sturdy, dust clinging to them from the fields. He set down a short-legged table, and Arwa wasted no time placing the prepared dishes upon it.

  On the table were white goat’s cheese, dried fruits, olives, eggs, butter, and bread sautéed with crushed red pepper. Small clay bowls held jams, and there was freshly pressed fruit juice.

  When Daneel saw me, he smiled. “Come, young man. Breakfast is ready — let us eat together.”

  I rose and approached the table. In a cheerful yet teasing tone, he added,

  “Because of my wife, I don’t often see such breakfasts. Come now, don’t let this fine opportunity pass you by.”

  Arwa raised her brows and shot her husband a sharp look. I do not know how women manage to command such authority with a single glance, but at the sight of it, Daneel chuckled and tore off a piece of bread.

  Drawing a deep breath, Arwa said,

  “My dear, forgive me. I fed that foolish man when he was hungry, clothed him when he was cold.

  When the time came, I washed his garments and mended what needed stitching. Yet my husband has grown so old he forgets even the services I have rendered him.”

  Daneel laughed softly. “All right, all right, wife,” he muttered.

  Throughout the meal they exchanged affectionate jests. I ate quietly, watching them. Though they bickered lightly, the love and respect between them were unmistakable.

  In this humble house, they had supported one another for many years, weathering difficult times side by side.

  When breakfast ended, Arwa rose to clear the table. I offered to help, but the elderly couple politely refused. It was clear they had a rhythm of their own.

  After taking a sip of his coffee, Daneel turned to me.

  “You know, lad, in my youth I fought in many small wars. When I retired, I left that bloody life behind and settled here. Farming brings far more peace.”

  Arwa nodded in agreement and added with a gentle smile,

  “I too came from afar, much like you. Thanks to my family’s medical knowledge, I was welcomed here. I carry on the legacy my mother left me. They believe my hands possess healing.”

  There was pride in her words, yet tempered with humility.

  Daneel, clearly accustomed to her quiet boasting, merely smiled. A sense of calm settled within me — the comfort of having met this elderly couple. Whether the Gods had a purpose in bringing me here, I did not know.

  But I felt, deep within, that I would remain here for some time.

  As the chill from outside began to creep into the room once more, the elderly couple returned to the hearth.

  After a while, I joined them. Sitting in the dim glow of the firelight, I felt as though I were living inside a fairy tale.