Chapter 88

The downpour raged outside, heavy raindrops drumming against the roof like a relentless percussion.

John Stone Sr. sat in the main room, leisurely pulling out his pipe. He squinted through the window where rainwater cascaded from the eaves like a shimmering curtain.

"Good rain," he murmured, exhaling a slow curl of smoke. "The wheat fields will drink their fill."

Suddenly, hurried footsteps shattered the quiet.

"Captain Stone! Trouble!" The messenger was drenched, his voice trembling. "Ethan—Ethan fell into the river!"

John shot to his feet, his pipe clattering to the floor. He snatched the straw raincoat his wife handed him and bolted outside, splashing through the mud.

Ethan Miller was the village's unluckiest child. Orphaned young, he lived with his brother and sister-in-law, who begrudged him every bite. These past rainy days, they hadn't even given him a warm meal.

"Poor boy must've been starving," John thought, his heart aching as he trudged forward.

A crowd had gathered by the raging river. All that was visible of Ethan was a thin, flailing arm above the churning water.

"Michael, I'll go!" Charles Clark tore off his raincoat and plunged into the icy current.

Michael Stone swiftly snapped a thick branch from a nearby tree and shouted, "Charles, grab this!"

The river fought back, nearly sweeping Charles away multiple times. But at last, he seized the half-drowned boy.

"Pull!" Michael commanded. The villagers heaved together, dragging them both ashore.

Ethan lay deathly pale, not breathing.

"Move!" Michael dropped to his knees, pressing hard on the boy's chest. One push, two—rain and sweat streaked down his forehead.

With a violent cough, Ethan spewed water and gasped for air.

"He's alive!" The crowd erupted in cheers.

John arrived just then, torn between pride and worry at the sight of his youngest son soaked to the bone.

"Take him to the clinic."

Ethan weakly shook his head. "I... I can't pay..."

Without a word, Michael hoisted him up. "You're coming home. We've got ginger tea and dry clothes."

Back at the house, three curious little faces peered at the stranger.

"This is Uncle Ethan," Michael explained simply. "He fell in the river. Needs warming up."

Emily Johnson was already stirring a pot of porridge in the kitchen. Spotting them, she quickly added brown sugar. "This'll help fight the chill."

Ethan clutched the steaming cup, tears plopping into the sweet liquid. It had been so long since he'd known such kindness.

"Michael..." The boy's voice cracked.

Michael patted his shoulder. "Change first. Don't catch cold."

Outside, the storm raged on. But inside, warmth bloomed.