"No place like home"

In the quiet parish of Broadmoor, a half‑ruined thatched hut clings to the ruins of an old lime‑kiln. Its bulging walls, moss‑covered roof, and single low‑looming loft create a shelter that feels both fragile and fiercely intimate. The modest furnishings—a broken chair, a table set on a sapling trunk, a cracked crockery set—speak of a life stripped to essentials, while the surrounding woods hum with the sounds of birds, beetles, and the occasional distant gun.

Ruth Medway, a hard‑working mother who taught herself to read after marriage, has made this humble place her sanctuary, cherishing the simple rhythm of kettle‑boiling evenings. Her youngest son, Ishmael, knows no other home; the woods behind the hut become his kingdom, populated by dormice, hedgehogs and a loyal starling that answers his call. Together they find comfort in the modest surroundings, even as the wider world—absent fathers, distant siblings, and the looming demands of the squire’s hunt—whispers beyond the trees.