Sunset Valley Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?

Backdated to March 14

the morning was gentle.
light poured through the eastern veil of trees, soft as breath upon the skin. it filtered in shafts over the snow-dappled clearing, warming little, but enough to touch the rim of the hollow that morwenna had claimed—just east of winsook’s sacred slope. the mountain watched them now like a sleeping giant, silent and still, as if it, too, held vigil over what remained of her family.
she lay curled within a nest of woven moss, bark, and pine, tail draped protectively around the small bodies at her belly. fa’liya suckled hungrily, mouth latched in the fierce way only the strong survived. her legs kicked occasionally, her breath even, alive.
@Caan, dear caan—he fed more gently, weak jaw struggling but determined. he had cried less today. not because the pain was gone, but because exhaustion made it quieter.
morwenna shifted her weight. beneath her tongue she had stored bitter roots, chewed and softened. goldenrod, willow, and a sliver of purple thistle—all chosen with care. she turned her head and nudged her son gently, coaxing him upward, licking his temple in quiet encouragement.
when he opened his tiny mouth with a whimper, she let the slurry spill onto the hollow of her paw, nudging it toward him. try, she whispered, though no word left her lips. her eyes said enough. please, my son.