As night deepened, Heimi's children returned to the house one by one under their mother's gentle urging.
Outside, the flames of the bonfire flickered, illuminating the silent faces of the four people.
Heimi sat by the fire, holding a jug of homemade fruit wine. His slightly flushed face was full of weariness and tipsy smiles.
His brewing skills were hardly refined. The fruit wine was somewhat sour and astringent, carrying the bitterness of fruit peels and a few bubbles from incomplete fermentation. Yet in this simple little courtyard, on this peaceful night, Ang found it exceptionally warm.
It was not an enjoyment of the palate, but a serenity born from the land and the human heart.
"Lord Ange, you know, my family used to be terribly poor..." Before he finished speaking, Heimi tipped back his head and gulped down some wine, his face turning even redder.
He narrowed his eyes, as though recalling some deeply buried past. "How poor? In winter, we could only eat once every three days. I was so hungry back then that I could even hear my stomach talking to me."
He did not speak loudly, and there was a trace of drunkenness in his voice, yet every word scraped across the heart like a dull knife.
In the firelight, his wife sat silently beside him, her fingers tightly twisting her apron. Her eyes had reddened, but she did not interrupt her husband's story.
"Our village was surrounded on all sides by noble territories. Even digging up wild vegetables or catching a rabbit had to be done in secret. One year, my eldest son truly could not hold on any longer, so he entered a nearby noble's forest..." He paused.
His throat bobbed, and he lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "He wanted to catch