Wren, My Wren – A Tale of Hope, Loss & Love
Every night I am forced to repeat the same lines one hundred times before I can rest. If I’ve misbehaved or neglected my chores, it becomes two hundred, or five hundred—more than I can count. If I hesitate or change my tone, my wrists are struck by the wooden ruler—sharp, cold, edged in metal.
“And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me… it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck…”
I live in the old maid’s room by the servants’ kitchen. Saeva placed my meager belongings there when I arrived years ago. She promised me a fresh start with a glittering smile—but like a famished dog, I chased after scraps of her approval. And I still do.
“And if thy hand offend thee, cut it off…”
Three years ago, on my first day at school, I cooked Jill’s aged stockings’ shell of scrambled eggs for everyone. Kathryn scoffed at them, pushing them around her plate, while Saeva frowned. Jill ate without a word. Witnessing the flicker of rage in Saeva’s eyes that morning marked the end of my chances.
“And if thy foot offend thee…”
Saeva forbade me to attend school. “You have no mind for it, Juniper,” she said, pressing her cold lips against my cheek and sending me to scrub Jill’s room instead. That was my lot: cleaning and serving while life passed me by.
Time passed in monotonous labor—scrubbing tile, washing sinks, dreaming of a life I had never known. I would repeat verses over and over until dawn, my spirit fraying with each line of punishment. I thought of my mother in her casket, her painted face frozen in death. Nightmares? Perhaps—until dawn washed away the illusion of rest.
“Where their worm dieth not…”
Hope arrived disguised as someone gentle. At the stable, where I sought solace, I found him—Wren.
He appeared as sunlight through gloom—his cheeks burned by wind, hair coal-black, eyes like stained‑glass shining in an ancient cathedral. He offered me a sweater, quietly asking my name. I whispered, “Juniper.” He said simply, “Wren.”
“And if thine eye offend thee…”
Wren became my confidant—my own little wren in a cage. He taught me kindness, and through his eyes I dared to imagine something impossible: love.
But at Saeva’s table, when she introduced him to the family, she made a pointed error: she called him a suitor for Kathryn. My heart shattered in silence as he spoke to her instead of me. Days later, I was banished to the stables—whipped and bruised more deeply than flesh.
Lightning split the sky that night as I fled into the cold rain. In the stable, I found him—Wren—lying fractured, headless. His body lay in blood. Trembling, I wrapped his head with Jill’s scarf, washing his broken shoulders with tears and cold rain. I mourned him under the hazel trees as the skies cleared.
A wren landed beside me in the branches, chirping, as if echoing my grief.
“And if thy eye… better for thee… to enter the kingdom…”
Saeva returned, furious. She drew my father home—and when I saw him, blood on his hands, shame in his eyes, I cried out. I embraced him. But when Wren’s body stirred, he fell upon Saeva—and everything changed. The house burned, and figures vanished into smoke and flame.
When dawn came, I buried what remained of Wren under the hazel, freed the horses, and walked barefoot toward the flames. But from the ruins came a hand. When I touched it, he—with a smile sweeter than memory—stood beside me fully whole.
He held my hand as we walked away beneath the rising sun. I wore golden silk, glass slippers, and a crown. He called me “Juniper” and kissed me gently. Then we stepped into a future we dared only imagine: together, forever.
🕊️ Moral of the Story
True courage thrives in the darkest suffering. Hope—and love—can resurrect even the deepest wounds.
