Chapter 3: The Weight of Words

The market smelled like roasted nuts and damp stone, a mix of warmth and earthiness that Emma had always found familiar. The scent clung to the air, mingling with the voices of merchants calling out their wares, the quiet chitter of rats weaving through the crowd, and the occasional clang of metal from the forge deeper in the city.

Emma's fingers curled around Elizabeth's sleeve as they moved through the narrow pathways between stalls, her dark eyes darting from one stand to the next.

She wasn't paying much attention to the merchants.

She was watching the newcomers.

She'd seen them earlier, a tall human man with tired eyes and a heavy presence, and the Rat King walking beside him. He wasn't like the other surface-dwellers who occasionally found their way down here. Most of them were scared, confused, clumsy in the way they moved. This one was watching. Taking everything in.

And the Rat King had been watching him.

Emma's grip on Elizabeth's sleeve tightened.

"Emma, what is it?" Elizabeth glanced down, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing mama," Emma murmured quickly.

But she didn't stop looking.

She spotted the tall man again, just briefly—long enough to see the way his gaze passed over the city, lingering on things most newcomers ignored. He wasn't afraid. Or if he was, he hid it well.

Elizabeth followed her line of sight, her lips pressing together slightly. "He's with the Rat King," she said, as if that explained everything. "No need to stare."

Emma wanted to argue, but before she could, a familiar voice called her name.

A group of children stood near a worn stone ledge at the far end of the market, where an old drainage pipe stuck out just enough to serve as a perfect climbing post.

"Emma!" One of the boys, Orin, waved her over. "Come play!"

Emma grinned and turned to Elizabeth, who already had that knowing look.

"Can I go?" Emma asked, bouncing slightly on her feet.

Elizabeth sighed, the kind of sigh that made it clear she already knew she would say yes. "Stay where I can see you."

"I will!"

Emma took off, her boots scuffing against the stone as she ran to join the others.

The game had no real rules—just a mix of climbing, chasing, and balancing along the ledge without falling. She scrambled up the pipe, pulling herself onto the platform where the others perched.

For a while, it was fun. Pushing, laughing, running. The kind of energy only kids had, the kind that made her forget about anything else.

Until the argument started.

It wasn't a real fight—just kids being kids. A disagreement about who had actually won the last race along the ledge.

"You cheated," Orin huffed, crossing his arms.

"Did not," Emma shot back.

"Did too!"

"You just don't like losing."

"Maybe you don't know because you don't have a brother anymore."

Silence.

The words hit too fast, too sharp.

The other kids stilled, their eyes darting between Emma and the boy who had said it. Orin looked like he regretted it immediately, but the damage was done.

Emma felt her chest tighten, her fingers curling against the rough stone beneath her. She wanted to say something back, something sharp, something that would make him feel just as bad—

But her throat closed up.

Before anyone could say anything else, she pushed herself off the ledge, landing harder than she meant to. She didn't stop.

Emma ran.

She didn't know where she was going, only that she needed to move. Needed to get away from the others, from the words that still clung to her like dust.

She finally stopped near an old stone archway, the kind that marked the edge of the market where the tunnels sloped into quieter parts of the city. Her breath came in short bursts, her chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with running.

Her fingers curled into fists.

Why did Orin have to say that?

She squeezed her eyes shut, laying her head against the cool stone.

She barely heard Elizabeth's footsteps until she was right behind her.

"Emma."

Emma stiffened.

"What was that back there?" Elizabeth's voice wasn't quite angry, but it wasn't soft either. It was the kind of tone she used when she was worried and trying to hide it.

Emma didn't answer.

Elizabeth let out a sigh. "I told you to stay where I could see you Em. You can't just run off like that."

Still, no answer.

Elizabeth folded her arms, waiting. Emma knew that look. She wasn't going to leave until she got an explanation.

After a long pause, Emma muttered, "I just wanted to be alone."

Elizabeth studied her for a moment, then crouched beside her. "What happened?"

Emma swallowed hard, shaking her head. She didn't want to say it. Didn't want to repeat the words that had already hurt enough.

But Elizabeth was patient.

She always was.

Finally, Emma whispered, "Orin said… I don't have a brother anymore."

Elizabeth's expression shifted, her lips parting slightly before she let out a slow breath.

"Oh, Emma…"

Emma shrugged, pretending like it didn't matter. "It's not like it's a lie."

"No, but it was a cruel thing to say."

Silence stretched between them. Elizabeth sat beside her, arms resting loosely over her knees.

After a moment, she spoke again, softer this time. "You know… when people leave us, we can't hold on to them the same way anymore. But that doesn't mean we have to forget them."

Emma swallowed, staring at the ground.

Elizabeth hesitated, then said, "Tell me something you miss about your brother."

Emma blinked, looking up at her.

Elizabeth offered a small, gentle smile. "Let's remember him."

Emma's throat tightened.

For a long moment, she couldn't answer. Not because she didn't have anything to say—but because there were too many things to choose from.

Finally, she mumbled, "He used to help me braid my hair."

Elizabeth raised a brow. "Your brother?"

Emma nodded. "I wasn't very good at it, but he was. He'd tell me it was because his hands were steadier, but really, I think he just practiced more."

She sniffed, rubbing her sleeve across her eyes before the tears could come. "I'd always pull the braid out after because I didn't like how it felt, but he never got mad. He just kept doing it whenever I asked."

Elizabeth smiled softly. "That's a good memory."

Emma nodded, staring down at her hands. "I don't think about him as much anymore," she admitted. "And when I do, it's not like it used to be. I used to feel like he was still here, just… somewhere else. But now it's like…"

She hesitated.

Elizabeth finished the thought for her.

"…Like the pieces of him are fading?"

Emma swallowed and nodded.

Elizabeth let out a breath, wrapping an arm around Emma's shoulders and pulling her close. "That's not your fault," she murmured. "And it doesn't mean he's gone from you. Sometimes memories get quiet, but they don't disappear."

Emma leaned against her, closing her eyes.

They sat in silence for a while, just breathing, just existing in the same space.

And for the first time since the market, the weight in Emma's chest felt a little lighter.

The quiet between them stretched, settling like dust after a storm. Emma leaned into Elizabeth's side, the warmth of her presence grounding her more than words ever could.

After a while, Elizabeth sighed and gently ruffled Emma's hair. "I think that's enough for today."

Emma glanced up at her.

Elizabeth offered a small smile. "I already got the bread I needed. Let's go home."

Home.

Emma swallowed, nodding. The market felt too loud now, too full of people she didn't want to see, not after what had happened. Leaving it behind felt like the right thing to do.

She didn't argue as Elizabeth led her through the winding streets of Rat City, past stalls and passageways that grew more familiar with every turn. The farther they walked, the quieter the city became, shifting away from the bustling market into the smaller, more lived-in parts of town.

And then, their storefront came into view.

The shop was built into the remnants of an old drainage tunnel, its entrance reinforced with salvaged wood and mismatched bricks. A faded sign—more for show than necessity, hung above the door, the words too worn to read clearly.

The warm scent of yeast and baking bread greeted them before they even stepped inside.

Emma hesitated at the threshold, the worn wood familiar beneath her fingers.

For a moment, she just stood there, breathing in the scent that drifted from inside—fresh bread, faint traces of spices, the lingering warmth of the ovens.

This smell meant home. It meant comfort, the kind that wrapped around her like a thick wool blanket on the coldest nights. It was Edgar, standing over the counter with his sleeves rolled up. It was Elizabeth dusting flour off her hands with a fond sigh. It was Eli, laughing as he shaped dough into uneven, lumpy figures that barely resembled bread.

She stepped inside.

The shop was small but sturdy, its walls lined with wooden shelves where loaves of bread sat neatly wrapped in cloth. A dim, oil-lit lantern flickered near the counter, casting soft shadows over the space. The warmth from the kitchen beyond made the air thick, the kind of heat that settled into your bones, especially on colder nights.

And there, behind the counter, was Edgar.

He stood where he always did, his broad shoulders squared as he worked the dough with careful precision. His forearms, dusted in flour, tensed slightly with each motion, the sleeves of his tunic rolled up just enough to keep them out of the way.

His features were sharp in that unreadable way that always made people hesitate, but Emma had never been intimidated by him. His deep-set eyes, lined with exhaustion but always observant, flicked toward her as she entered.

He didn't stop kneading the dough.

"You look like you ran halfway across the city," he said, his voice gruff but familiar. "Trouble?"

Emma hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly against the wrapped loaf she still held.

Elizabeth stepped in before she had to answer. "Nothing that won't settle with time."

Edgar studied them both for a second longer, then let out a low grunt—the kind that meant he'd accept the answer, even if he wasn't convinced.

Instead of pushing further, he reached for a cloth-wrapped bundle on the counter, setting it down without a word.

"Fresh loaf."

Emma stepped forward, grabbing it carefully.

It was still warm, the scent curling up from the edges of the cloth.

For a moment, she was back at the worn wooden table, hands sticky with dough.

She could still hear Eli groaning dramatically as his attempt at a loaf collapsed in on itself. Could still see Elizabeth pressing her lips together to keep from laughing, only for Edgar to let out a rare chuckle and say, 'Not every loaf is meant to be perfect.'

She had laughed that day. All of them had.

Her chest tightened.

No matter how heavy the day had felt, no matter what words had been spoken, this place never changed.

She was home.