I wake before the fireflies have gone home.

Their faint gold light drifts through the entrance of our den, moving slowly across the roots and moss, and for a few quiet breaths, I forget why where Willow usually sleeps is empty.

Then it comes flooding back to me like a tidal wave. My daughter is somewhere inside the Veil, facing darkness.

My body rises before my mind catches up. I take one step toward the entrance. Then I hear Clove’s voice from the night before. That fear is yours.

I stop myself from taking another step and take a deep breath. The den is so quiet around me. Rosemary’s sleeping place is empty too, though her moss is still warm. She must have risen early for Ember training. The thought sends fear rushing through my chest.

I imagine her standing before the scar. I imagine her fire flaring. I imagine the Shadow feeling her again. My legs tense. I could go after her. I could make sure she stays far from the Veil. I could tell Prose she needs more time. I could let fear decide the morning.

Instead, I breathe until the urge passes through me. It takes longer than I expect. When I finally look away from the entrance, I see one of Willow’s little bark doors. It’s tucked between two roots near Willow’s sleeping place. Its edges are uneven. A tiny crescent moon has been carved above it, and one side hangs lower than the other because Willow was still learning how to shape bark when she made it. I have seen it countless times, but this morning, it looks different. I lower myself beside it.

Willow carved these doors after her father disappeared. She hid them beneath roots, behind stones, and inside hollow logs. She told Rosemary they were for the sprites, ancient beings who might return to our part of Hallow if they could find an entrance. That was the story she told her little sister. I knew there was another reason.

One evening, I found Willow pressing this one into the wall of our den. Her hooves were covered in bark dust. I asked her who the door was for.

Without thinking, she said, “so dad can find us.”

I remember how my heart folded in on itself. I should have sat beside her. I should have asked how long she had been waiting for him. Instead, I told her the door was beautiful. Then I walked outside, where my daughters could not see me, and cried. I thought hiding my grief protected them, but I couldn’t hide it from Willow. Children always feel what fills a home, even when no one gives it a name.

I touch the little door with the edge of my hoof.

“I am sorry,” I whisper.

“Are you talking to Willow?” Rosemary’s voice comes from the entrance.

I lift my head.

She stands beneath the hanging moss, watching me. The first light of morning surrounds her as her eyes move from me to the little door.

“I was talking to both of you,” I say.

Rosemary steps inside. She looks tired. There is moss tangled around one of her legs, and her ears droop lower than usual. She must have slept very little.

“I thought you’d be back at the Veil. Did Prose tell you to stay away?” she asks.

“No.”

Her ears tilt forward.

“Then why are you here?”

The answer catches in my throat. “Because you are here.”

Rosemary looks uncertain.

I realize how easily those words could become pressure. She might hear that I stayed because she needs to remain beside me. She might hear that her sister is gone, so she must fill the empty place.

“I also stayed because I need to learn how to wake up without giving every morning to my fear,” I say. “Standing at the Veil cannot bring Willow home. Today, staying here is part of how I help her.”

Rosemary glances toward the forest. “What if something happens?”

“Prose will call us.”

“What if Willow comes back?”

“Then we will go to her.”

“What if she needs us?”

My chest aches.

“She needs us to keep the Hallow safe. She needs us to make sure the Shadow has nothing here it can use against her.”

Rosemary lowers her gaze. “I almost gave it something.”

“So did I.”

She looks at me.

I move closer, then stop with space between us. “I need to tell you what I realized last night.”

Rosemary braces herself as though I am about to give her another burden.

The sight of it hurts.

“The Keepers helped me see how much of my grief I carried in silence after your father disappeared,” I say. “Willow felt responsible for making life easier for me. She became steady before she was ready. She learned to hide her fear because she thought I could not survive any more pain.”

Rosemary looks toward Willow’s empty sleeping place. “I thought she was just brave.”

“So did I. I praised her for it.” My voice trembles. “She was brave, and she was also a child trying to protect her mother.”

Rosemary sits beside the little door. “Did I do that too?”

The question is so quiet that I almost miss it.

“You were younger,” I say. “Your grief took a different shape.”

“The temper?”

“Some of it.”

She looks down. “I always felt like everyone was waiting for me to make things worse.”

Her eyes lift to mine.

“I was afraid… and I treated your strongest feelings like another danger I had to survive. You deserved help understanding them.”

Rosemary swallows.

“I did make things worse sometimes.”

“You made mistakes while learning how to carry feelings that were bigger than you.”

“I almost opened the Hallow to the Shadow.”

“You stopped.”

“Snow stopped me.”

“Snow helped you see. You still made the choice.”

Rosemary is silent. I can see her trying to decide whether she is allowed to believe me. I lower myself onto the moss across from her.

“Last night, I told the Keepers that I was afraid everyone would leave me. Your father left. Willow entered the Veil. Now you are training for a future that may take you into the human world.”

Rosemary’s face changes.

“I’m not trying to leave you.”

“I know.”

“I am trying to help Willow.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why are you scared?”

The honesty of the question lands gently because it comes from her.

“Fear does not always listen to what I know… I spent years watching the trees for your father. Then I watched the Veil for Willow. I could spend the rest of my life watching every path you take.”

Rosemary bristles. “Are you going to stop me from training?”

There it is. The moment I could repeat everything I did before. I could tell her she is too young. I could ask her to wait until Willow returns. I could make her responsible for calming the fear that belongs to me. I look at the little bark door. Then I look at my daughter.

“No,” I say. “I support your training.”

Rosemary stares at me.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Even after what happened?”

“What happened showed us why the training matters.”

Her eyes fill with tears. She looks away quickly. “I thought you would ask me to stay with you.”

“I want to.”

The truth makes her look back.

“But I’m choosing something else.”

“What are you choosing?”

“I am choosing to help you become the Ember you are meant to be.”

“I don’t know what that means yet,” she says.

“Neither do I. We can learn.”

Rosemary’s expression crumples.

For one terrible second, I think I have hurt her.

Then she crosses the space between us and presses her face against my chest.

I hold still. Every part of me wants to wrap around her so tightly that nothing can ever reach her again.

I let my body remain soft.

I lower my head over hers.

“I miss her,” Rosemary says.

“I miss her too.”

“I am angry at her.”

“You are allowed to be.”

“I am angry at you.”

My heart contracts.

“I want to hear why.”

Rosemary pulls back enough to look at me.

“You were gone even when you were home.”

The words cut cleanly.

I breathe through the pain.

“After Father left,” she continues, “you watched the trees. Now you watch the Veil. Willow watched you, and I watched Willow. It always felt like everyone was looking for someone who was gone.”

I close my eyes.

“That hurt,” Rosemary says.

The phrase is careful. Practiced. I wonder if Snow taught it to her.

“You deserved to be seen by the family who was still there.”

Her tears finally fall.

“So did Willow.”

“Yes.”

The little door sits between us.

I touch my forehead to Rosemary’s. “I cannot change the years I spent waiting. I can change what I do today.”

“How?”

“I will attend your training. I will listen when you name your anger. I will help you understand the fear beneath it. When my own fear rises, I will take it to the Keeper Circle. I will not place it in your hands and ask you to become smaller.”

Rosemary breathes shakily. “And if I hurt you?”

“I will tell you.”

“Will you get angry?”

“Perhaps.”

She nods.

“And if you hurt my feelings?” she asks.

“You tell me.”

“What if you do not like hearing it?”

“I will listen anyway.”

The fireflies outside begin to gather, their lights strengthening as morning reaches the den.

One drifts inside.

It hovers above Willow’s little door.

Rosemary watches it. “Do you think she can feel what we are doing?”

“I hope so.”

“What if she thinks we are learning how to live without her?”

My throat tightens. “The Shadow may try to convince her of that.”

The fire in Rosemary’s eyes flare. “What do we do?”

“We keep loving her without stopping our lives. We make the Hallow stronger for her return. We heal the wounds the Shadow might use as evidence against us.”

The firefly brightens.

Rosemary looks at me. “Willow would want me to train.”

“Yes.”

“She would want you to sleep.”

I almost laugh. “That’s true.”

“She would want us to stop staring at the Veil all day.”

“That may take practice.”

“Prose says practice is why we have training.”

This time, I do laugh.

The sound feels unfamiliar inside the den.

Rosemary smiles through her tears.

I stand and walk toward the entrance.

The path outside leads toward the meadow, where the Embers will continue their training.

Rosemary walks beside me. After several steps, she looks up.

“You are really coming?”

“I am.”

“You support me being an Ember?”

“I support all of you. Your fire, your training, and the life you will choose for yourself.”

“What if that life takes me through the Veil?”

The question hurts.

I let it hurt.

“Then I will help you prepare,” I say. “When the time comes, I will bless your crossing. I will grieve because I love you, and I will let the Keepers help me carry that grief.”

She leans against my side as we walk.

Behind us, Willow’s little bark door remains tucked between the roots of our den. For years, it stood as a way for someone lost to find us again. Today, I see another meaning in it. A door can open in both directions. Willow is finding her way toward the human who called her. Rosemary is finding her way into the strength of her Order. I am finding my way back to the daughters who spent too long believing they had to carry me.

The meadow appears through the trees.

Red-gold fireflies are gathering above the training circle. Prose stands near the fractured glimmer stone. The other Embers are arriving with the Keepers.

Rosemary slows. Her fear reaches me before she says anything. I feel my own fear answer. This time, I won’t tell her to be careful. I won’t ask her to stay close.

I touch my forehead to hers. “Go learn what your fire can become,” I say. “I will be here to help you.”

Rosemary steps into the circle, the members of her Order embrace her.

I remain at its edge with the other Keepers, watching my daughter move toward her future. My heart aches. My legs stay beneath me. And for the first time, love does not feel like waiting for someone to come back. It feels like helping them become strong enough to go.