The grass beneath my bare feet is soft, lush, a sea of emerald and gold. Wildflowers brush my ankles as I move, their petals trembling with each gust of wind. The air is thick with the perfume of honeysuckle and lavender, the delicate sweetness of wild roses, the earthy aroma of sun-warmed grass.
I breathe it in, and it fills my lungs with something so familiar, so comforting, it almost hurts.
In the distance, I hear the soft hum of crickets in the tall grass, the occasional chirp of a bird flitting through the air. The wind carries with it the rustling of leaves, the faint trickle of a hidden stream.
The world is perfect here. Untouched.
This is home.
Then I hear it—laughter, soft and familiar. I turn, and therethey are.
My parents.
My mother, smiling, reaching out to me. My father—tall, steady, his eyes full of light. The sight of them fills my chest with something I haven’t felt since before that last day in the village, peace.
Their faces illuminated by the golden light, my mother’s eyes bright with happiness, my father standing tall, his broad frame solid, familiar.
“Amara, my love,” my mother calls, her voice warm, full of light. “Come join us.”
A lump forms in my throat. I don’t hesitate. I step forward. The meadow stretches endlessly. The wind carries their voices like music.
“Come, Amara,” my father says, a smile in his voice. “We’re waiting.”
I take two steps. But they don’t get closer.
I frown.
My feet press into the grass, the warmth still on my skin, the scent of the wildflowers too perfect.
“Amara, come on,” my mother coaxes, her laughter like a bell. “We’re right here.”
I walk forward again. They drift further away.
I stop, my pulse spiking.
No.
I take more steps, faster this time. They are still smiling, their hands outstretched.
“Come on, love,” my mother says, gentle, inviting. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
My breath catches. I step again. They move further away. My stomach clenches. This isn’t right.
“Come, Amara,” my father calls again, but now sounds distant, too light, too airy.
The warmth isn’t real.
My heart slams in my chest.
“We’re waiting.”
I break into a run. They keep slipping away. The golden light flickers. The wind dies. The scent of wildflowers turns. My mother’s voice is still light, still sweet, still calling for me but they are so far away now.
“Amara, love, hurry up,” she sings.
I run harder.
“You’re almost here,” my father promises. Gentle. Warm.
