The agency’s kitchen yielded its meager bounty as Eleanor slipped a rind of cheese and a bruised apple into her apron, remnants spared from the day’s dole. Wolthrope’s dusk hung heavy, the river’s damp breath seeping through her shawl as she trudged home, her boots sucking at the mire. The tenement loomed, its sagging timbers groaning under the weight of countless woes, and she stepped inside, the air sharp with mold and the ghosts of better days.

  Eldric looked up from the hearth, his wooden horse cradled in his lap, its legs worn smooth by his touch. “Mama!” he chirped, his voice a fragile bell, and she knelt, unfolding her treasures. The cheese crumbled in her hands, its tang a rare gift, and she sliced the apple with a blunt knife, its flesh mottled but sweet. Margaret swayed on her pallet, humming a snatch of song—“The lark’s in the meadow”—and Henry’s clouded eyes followed the blade, a flicker of hunger breaking through his haze.

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  “Here,” Eleanor said, pressing a piece into Eldric’s palm, then Margaret’s, then Henry’s. They ate in silence, the crackle of the fire their only chorus, and for a moment, the room softened— a frail echo of suppers when James’s laughter had filled it. Eldric chewed slowly, his bent legs tucked beneath him, and grinned. “You’re the best, Mama,” he said, his words a balm to her raw spirit. She smiled, though her throat burned, knowing this scrap was no victory, only a stay against the hunger clawing at their bones.

  Margaret licked her fingers, her hum fading, and Henry’s hand fell limp, the apple half-eaten. Eleanor gathered the crumbs, her own hunger a quiet ache she buried deep. She looked at them—her son, her parents—and saw the threads of their lives fraying, her hands too weak to mend them. Outside, Wolthrope’s mills thrummed, relentless, and she felt their rhythm in her pulse: a march toward ruin she could not halt.