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Chapter 10 - Frost and Fire

The knock came earlier than usual. Not the usual shuffle of footsteps on the stairs, not the rattle of crockery from the kitchen below.

A firm rap on the attic door.

"Up," Keith's voice called. "Jobs're waiting."

Harry blinked at the dark ceiling. He turned to the window — no light. Just a cold slate sky and the ghost of his breath in the air.

He checked the clock. 5:02 a.m.

An hour early.

Downstairs, the house was already moving. Janet thudded around the kitchen in her fleece and work boots, the kettle boiling hard enough to rattle. Harry dressed quickly and quietly, tugging on his muddy joggers and thick socks. His muscles ached from yesterday's trial, but something told him not to mention it.

Outside, the air bit at his cheeks as he stepped into the morning gloom. The frost on the grass crunched beneath his boots. The sky was still asleep.

"Start with the coop," Keith said, not making eye contact as he handed him a sack of feed. "Then weed that back plot. And don't forget the troughs — they're low again."

"Y-yes, Mr. Morley."

There was something off in their tone. Not angry. Not exactly cold. But sharper. Icy. Like every word had been sanded down and served with a side of silence.

They didn't mention the trial.

Not a word about Hadley's visit.

Not even a look.

Harry worked harder than ever — feeding the hens, mucking out the straw, dragging the heavy bin of seed through the barn. His breath came in short puffs, but he didn't slow. If anything, he pushed harder.

Were they angry he'd done well? Disappointed? Or had they said no to Mr. Hadley?

The thought sank like ice in his chest.

He wanted to ask, but he knew better than to prod the sleeping beast. So he turned the questions into fuel. His arms ached. His back burned. But he bent lower, lifted heavier, moved quicker.

If he couldn't grow taller, he'd grow stronger.

When he weeded the gravel path, he squatted low, holding his position for minutes at a time, imagining the muscles forming in his legs.

When he lifted feed sacks to the barn, he did it in reps — two, pause, then three more.

Everything was training now.

Janet watched from the porch, arms folded, whispering something to Keith, who leaned against the doorframe. Harry saw their lips move, saw their eyes flick back toward him.

He didn't slow.

At 6.30am, he was done. Half an hour early.

Keith poked his head around the door. "That's it?"

Harry wiped his hands on his joggers. "Yes, Mr. Morley."

A pause. Then a grunt. "Come on in. Breakfast's on."

The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and instant coffee. Janet was slicing bread like it owed her money. Keith sat hunched over the table, arms crossed.

Harry took his seat, nervous but quiet.

Finally, Janet broke the silence. "So. This football thing."

Harry sat up straighter.

"You did well yesterday," Keith said, almost reluctantly. "Mr. Hadley reckons you're… good."

Harry stayed quiet, unsure if this was a trap.

Janet wiped her hands on a tea towel. "We've talked. If he wants you on the team, you can go."

Harry blinked. "Really?"

"But," Keith added, raising a hand, "your jobs come first. Every day. No excuses. And we're not paying for boots, kits, or gear. You want to play, you find your own way."

Janet chimed in. "Only boots you need are wellies."

Harry's grin spread across his face like sunrise.

"Thank you," he said, breathless. "I'll work twice as hard. I promise."

They didn't smile. But they didn't argue either.

And for Harry, that was enough.

His food tasted warmer. The air felt lighter. And somewhere deep inside — beneath the aching muscles and the quiet doubt — something had shifted.

They hadn't stopped him.

That meant he was still in the game.

And that was all he needed.

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