Chapter One

May the One who watches the wind remember the names we carry.

That was how Rivkah’s grandmother began her stories—never with “Once Upon a Time,” but with a blessing, a breath, a thread of memory.

Rivkah was nine when Oren vanished.

She remembered the fig tree first: its branches heavy with fruit, its shade dappled across the courtyard stones. She had worn her green tunic that day, the one Solica had embroidered with leaf patterns, and her hair was braided tight to keep the resin from sticking.

Oren had leaned against the tree trunk, his maroon velvet jacket catching the sun, embroidered in gold and blue like something out of a merchant’s dream. He was fifteen, already taller than Shem Tov, already restless. His green eyes had a faraway look, as though he were watching stars no one else could see.

Shem Tov sat beside him, legs crossed, his chestnut curls falling into his eyes. He looked like Rivkah in the bones—same cheekbones, same stubborn chin—but his skin was lighter, his eyes deeper, golden brown like Eliyahu’s. He laughed easily then, before the silence came.

Rivkah had crouched nearby, pretending to grind herbs, pretending not to listen.

“You’ll leave,” Shem Tov said, not accusing, just knowing.

Oren didn’t answer right away. He plucked a fig, split it open, and handed half to Shem Tov. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I swear it.”

That night, he was gone.