The next few days followed the same pattern as before. In the morning, I fed the chickens—or what was left of them.

Every day it seemed to diminish, and each time my guilty conscience gnawed at me a little more. But then I remembered our conversation about the animals, his words that never left my mind. And so I stopped eating meat altogether. I simply couldn't do it anymore.

When I returned to the house, breakfast was already waiting for me. He prepared it every morning—a small gesture I didn't particularly appreciate, but couldn't ignore. I continued to try to avoid him, to avoid engaging him in conversation. But Eryon...