Chapter 5: The Red Mark

The early morning sunlight spilled through the wide kitchen window like melted gold, casting long, warm shapes across the floor tiles that still held a touch of the night’s coolness. It was a soft and gentle light, the kind that seemed to whisper instead of shine, stretching slowly over the wooden countertops and the polished teacups drying on a rack. Elowen stood quietly near the doorway, her school bag slung over one shoulder, its weight pulling slightly at the edge of her thick sweater. The strap pressed uncomfortably into her collarbone, but she didn’t adjust it.

Her fingers were curled slightly at her side, not from tension, but from the kind of quiet hesitation that comes when you know the day ahead won’t be simple. Across the room, her mother stood by the counter with the same peaceful smile she wore every morning. She was dressed in her usual apron—faded from years of use—with a light dusting of flour near the bottom hem, likely from baking the night before. With gentle hands and movements that spoke of routine and care, she passed Elowen a small cloth-wrapped lunchbox. The cloth was knotted at the top with a careful twist, and inside, the soft, comforting scent of warm rice and steamed vegetables mingled with something sweet—perhaps her father’s favorite red bean paste. It wasn’t overpowering, just a delicate smell that made Elowen’s heart feel full and a little heavier at the same time.

“Elowen, when you head to school, could you swing by and give this lunchbox to your dad?” her mother asked softly, her voice as warm as her hands had been when she held the lunchbox a moment ago. There was a calmness in the way she spoke, as though nothing could shake the steady rhythm of her morning.

“Sure, Mom,” Elowen said with a small nod, her voice even, but something quiet lingered in her chest. She took the lunchbox, its surface cool against her palm, and tucked it safely under her arm. Then, with a quick glance over her shoulder, she opened her school bag to make sure her books and school registers were still in place. Everything was there. Nothing missing. And yet, as she adjusted the bag’s position again, a strange weight pressed down on her—not just from the books or the lunchbox, but from something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of heaviness that doesn’t come from objects but from feelings you don’t have words for. Still, she smiled faintly, said goodbye to her mother, and stepped out the front door, blinking a little as the bright morning sun met her eyes.

The air outside was fresh and cool, and the sunlight lit up the small front yard with a cheerful golden glow. As she walked down the path, her eyes caught movement on the grass, and she stopped. Just ahead, her little sister Mireille was in the middle of the lawn, her bare feet brushing against the grass, spinning and ducking with an intense look of focus on her face. She was gripping their father’s old wooden nunchucks, holding them too tightly in her small hands as she tried to copy the swift, controlled moves she had watched him do so many times.

Her arms flailed slightly with each swing, the weapon too large for her but her spirit clearly too big to care. Even though her form was unsteady and her steps a bit wobbly, her determination lit her movements like fire. When Mireille noticed Elowen standing there watching, she froze for a split second, then quickly hid the nunchucks behind her back with a sheepish grin, her eyes wide with the kind of mischief that children wear like a second skin. It was the look of someone hoping she hadn’t been caught, but also a little proud of her secret training.

Elowen walked over slowly, the gravel crunching under her shoes with each step. She smiled softly, stopping just close enough to reach out and ruffle Mireille’s messy hair. The strands were soft and smelled faintly like the strawberry shampoo they both used—a scent that always made Elowen think of sleepovers, shared laughter, and warm towels after baths. “What are you doing, Mireille?” she asked with a hint of teasing in her voice.

Mireille’s smile widened, and though her lips didn’t move—she hadn’t spoken aloud since she was three—her hands began to. With careful, clear motions, she signed. First, she drew a “P” on her palm, then touched her chest for “self,” mimed a swift punch in the air, and ended by tapping her forehead—the sign for “dad.”

Elowen chuckled softly, her breath catching for a moment in her throat. “Oh, I see. Practicing like Dad,” she said, understanding the silent message behind those quick signs. Mireille nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling with pride.

Then she leaned forward and signed again, this time with a little more speed and urgency. Her hands moved like dancers—touching her own shoulder, then reaching out to Elowen, opening her palms as if giving something, and ending with a small spiral in the air. Elowen narrowed her eyes slightly, concentrating. “Why do you want me to come home early tonight?” she asked, speaking slowly as she translated the meaning behind the graceful signs.

Mireille repeated it more carefully. This time, Elowen understood: her little sister was asking for help. She wanted Elowen to come back early so they could practice together, learn new moves, and maybe, just maybe, feel a little closer to the father they both admired—even if from very different places.

Elowen smiled and reached out to tuck a loose strand of Mireille’s hair behind her ear. “Moves aren’t that hard to learn, are they?” she said gently. “I’ll help you after school. I promise.”

That promise lit Mireille’s face like sunshine. She bounced slightly on her toes before wrapping her arms tightly around Elowen, hugging her with a kind of fierce joy that only little sisters can give. Then she pulled back and made another sign—tapping her cheek with fingers shaped like an “H” and pretending to hold something round in her hand.

Elowen laughed. “Oranges again?” she asked, teasing. “Of course I’ll bring your favorite oranges.”

With that, Elowen finally turned toward the road. Her steps were light at first, made softer by the warm memory of Mireille’s hug and the silent language they now shared—an invisible bridge made of gestures, patience, and love. But as the buildings of town began to come into view, and she neared her next stop, her steps slowed. The warmth in her chest started to fade, replaced by a knot of unease that grew heavier with each step.

Her father’s martial arts shop was just ahead, nestled quietly between a florist that always smelled of lilies and a small bookbinding store with tiny golden letters painted on the glass. The sign above the shop read “Caldwell Martial Arts and Crafts,” carved into dark wood and polished to a clean shine. The window display held staffs, nunchucks, wooden swords, and carved training tools, all perfectly arranged. It looked peaceful and strong—like it belonged to someone who cared about order and tradition. But to Elowen, the sight brought back a sting she had tried hard to ignore.

She paused outside the door, her fingers brushing her cheek. Under her makeup, the skin still felt tender—a faint reddish spot just at the edge of her lip. Last night’s slap hadn’t been meant to draw blood, but it had. Her father’s anger had come like a storm—quick, sharp, and full of pressure. He had been disappointed again, furious after she failed another entrance practice exam for The Wycliffe Institute. It wasn’t the martial arts that triggered him this time—it was her refusal to become the kind of daughter he had always imagined.

To her father, Wycliffe was the only future worth chasing. It was a place of high ceilings, white lab coats, cold laboratories, and whispered respect. It meant status, success, and security. It was the kind of school that turned girls like Elowen into doctors with shining degrees and heavy diplomas. But Elowen had never felt drawn to that cold, clinical world. Her dreams were rooted in something gentler, something more alive. She wanted to study holistic healing—to understand the way herbs, energy, and emotion worked together to heal the body and the spirit. The Runestone School of Holistic Healing, though smaller and lesser-known, offered everything she believed in. It saw medicine not just in machines, but in people. But her father refused to even hear about it.

She found him behind the shop, in the open training space that looked almost like a quiet park. He wore his white martial arts jacket, the edges sharp and clean, and held a wooden staff that spun through the air with perfect control. His movements were quick, each step grounded and certain, his breathing calm and steady. Even as age touched his features, he moved like a man untouched by time—his strength still solid, his will still unbending.

He stopped when he saw her and gave a short nod. She walked over and handed him the lunchbox. He accepted it without a word, unwrapping the cloth and settling on a bench to eat. Silence wrapped around them like morning mist.

Trying to soften the mood, Elowen asked, “So… how’s training? Anyone showing promise?”

He didn’t look up. “No new talent yet,” he said, his voice flat and quiet as he chewed slowly.

Elowen studied him. The lines around his eyes were deeper now, his hair grayer, his shoulders more tired. And yet, that same fire still burned behind his eyes—a light that refused to dim, even as everything else began to fade. She stepped a little closer, hesitated, then reached out and touched his forehead lightly. Her fingers trembled just slightly.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Why are you still pushing yourself so hard at this age?”