It was years ago, but Jack remembered.
It had been warm for days. He remembered that. He had forgotten many things, so many little details, but he remembered the spring-like warmth in the heart of winter.
He remembered his mother preparing their dinner over the smallest possible fire to keep the house from getting too hot. Of course, she had always used a small fire, no matter the season.
His mother was afraid of fire. He remembered that house: in his dreams he walked its rooms and touched the furnishings - simple furnishings, as was the white mage’s way.
He remembered the corner where he used to play with his father’s spell books, stacking them to build little houses.
He could not remember his father’s face.
On that particular night, his mother moved the small cook pot to the table and he scrambled eagerly into his chair, the one with the thickest spell book on it to boost him up.
“Not yet, love,” his mother said, dousing the tiny fire. “We’ll eat when your father gets home.”
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