That day, Marta Langley had no reason to visit the town.
Bread, nails, or anything else were not necessary for her to defend the detour.
She pulled her horse toward the square, however, because of a change in the wind that was more of a premonition than a notion.
Then she saw them: three kids, their wrists bound behind their backs, sacks wrapped over their heads, standing like statues.
A hand-painted placard at their feet said, “Orphans! Without age, without name.
Without saying anything, Marta got off the carriage.
With the determination of someone who never seeks permission, her boots hit the earth.
She went unnoticed at first.
The silent widow who came and departed without saying hello to anyone was her.
However, she approached the gathering directly this time, and something in her eyes caused everyone to turn.
The red-faced man in short suspenders who was the auctioneer coughed uncomfortably.
“Are you here for one, ma’am?”
She just drew nearer without responding.
The oldest of the three kids, who was around eleven or twelve, staggered a little but remained steadfast.
There was a black eye on the one in the center.
The youngest, who was barely six, looked in her direction.
The auctioneer continued to speak uneasily.
“They lack training.
They seldom ever speak.
They don’t weep.
Since dawn, I have not eaten.
It could get worse if you untie them.
Perhaps they won’t even talk.
Just saying.
You have no idea what you are purchasing.
Without responding, Marta simply reached into her coat, took out her old leather pocketbook, and dropped silver money into the auctioneer’s hand without thinking.
“All three,” she stated unequivocally.
There was silence in the square.
“Is it okay?” Confused, the man repeated.
She gave a nod.
“Untie them.”
The audience held its breath.
After taking a deep breath, the auctioneer produced a knife and proceeded to remove the sacks one by one.
The oldest’s eyes were as hard as ice and pallid.
The second didn’t look at anyone.
After the covering was gone, the youngest muttered, “Mrs. Langley,” with complete assurance.
It was something much more personal than astonishment or fear: recognition.
“How does he know her?” muttered a woman in the crowd.
Marta, however, did not respond.
She only murmured, “Come with me,” placing her hand on the youngest boy’s shoulder first, then the middle one, and finally the oldest.
She was warned by the auctioneer.
“You’re not even familiar with their names.”
She said, “I don’t need them,” and turned to leave.
Silently, they rode.
The three kids in the back of the cart, knees pressed firmly against their chests, eyes focused on the road, and Marta in front.
She provided no consolation, no one spoke, and no one inquired as to their destination.
Not yet—because Marta Langley understood something that most people overlook: showing love too soon after a major injury can be violent in and of itself.
The pines grew tallest and the creek ran cold among the stones at the edge of the valley where her cottage was located.
The house wasn’t very lovely or brand-new.
The windows had not been cleaned in months, and the barn tilted.
However, it belonged to her.
And it remained intact.
She halted the cart in front of the porch when they got there.
She said without raising her voice, “Inside.”
The first to leap down was the oldest.
Without complaining or saying anything, he assisted the other two.
Like shadows, they walked in, their gaze focused on the ground and their footfall silent.
The warmth of the morning was still present in the stove.
Marta boiled some water.
Then, with firm hands, she took out a sack of flour and a jar of dried beans and started to make something.
“Sit down,” she said.
Without saying a word, the kids obeyed.
From the corner of her eye, she saw them as she swirled the mixture.
She got all the information she needed from their posture and breathing patterns: dread, resistance, and awareness.
But there was also a glimmer of something else, maybe hope, or something that was starting to look like it.
She questioned the youngest, “What’s your name?”
After he paused, he muttered, “Milo.”
She gave a nod.
“And you?”
Without looking up, the middle one replied, “Aris.”
“And you?” When she asked the oldest, he said, “Beck,” without blinking.
As she talked, she returned her attention to the pan and used a spoon to pour the mixture.
“My name is Marta.
You mentioned Milo, my name.
How did you find out?
He gave a shrug.
“I simply knew.”
“Have you heard about me?
She asked if we had previously met.
The boy looked at her.
Although he was too small to lie, there was something in his voice that could not be made up.
“I was asleep when I heard it.
A woman said that.
“Marta Langley will come,” she said.
She’ll drive you home.
With a heavy quiet, Milo’s comments departed the kitchen.
Marta did not respond right away.
Something tightened inside since she had once uttered those precise words while kneeling by herself at her husband’s grave: Let someone need me again.
Let my name be spoken.
She was more shaken by this child’s uninvited speech than by any previous catastrophe.
Beck stiffened.
He responded icily, “I don’t care how he knew your name.”
However, if you intend to harm us, do it right away.
Don’t drag it out.
Slowly, Marta moved away from the stove.
“I promise not to harm you.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
She simply flipped the pancakes without arguing.
“I won’t say it again then.”
She served them without fanfare.
They ate with the haste of those who are uncertain about when they will be able to eat again.
There was no talk, only the crunch of bread, the scrape of forks, and a tight silence.
After they were done, Marta took out blankets and placed them by the fireplace.
“This is where you’ll sleep tonight.
The chest contains clean clothing.
Her voice seemed more like a command than an invitation.
She went on, “I won’t chase you if any of you run.”
“But if you choose to return, I’ll leave the lamp lit.”
She started up the stairs but halted at the first step.
“Tomorrow we’ll talk about what comes next,” she added without turning.
No one slept through the entire night.
nor them, nor her—for Milo’s words, of that enigmatic night-voice, continued to reverberate in her memory like a fulfilled request or a prophecy.
And then, almost without intending to, Marta found herself whispering: Let someone say my name again.
