Chapter 13: The Hearth of the Mountain
That evening, as the full harvest moon rose over the Berkshire ridges, painting the granite quarry walls in silver and deep indigo light, Ellen and Victoria sat on the fieldstone porch of the cabin.
A small fire of seasoned oak crackled in the iron brazier on the terrace, throwing warm amber light across their faces.
Victoria sat beside her mother, holding a mug of hot spiced cider, watching the reflection of the stars dancing in the calm waters of the quarry pool below.
""Do you remember the dining room in Greenwich, Mother?"" Victoria asked softly, looking out into the peaceful night.
""I remember, my dear,"" Ellen replied gently, taking her daughter’s hand.
""I was so terrified that night,"" Victoria said, a faint, reflective smile touching her lips. ""I thought that if people knew the house didn't belong to me, I would cease to exist.""
Ellen squeezed her daughter’s hand, her voice soft as the mountain wind.
""We only exist when we give our hands to something greater than ourselves, Victoria. You don't need a deed to have a home. You have the stone.""
May you like
Victoria leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder, listening to the rhythmic rush of the mountain brook and the deep, eternal silence of the granite hills.
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