“You were meant for more, my sweet girl,” she whispers.
The words curl through the air, wrapping around me, sinking deep into my bones.
The dream shifts.
Flames rise—not threatening or burning, justthere. Shadows flicker inside the fire, forming shapes I don’t understand. A ruined place—stone fractured beneath some unseen force. Symbols scorched into the walls, shifting, alive.
I know them . . . and I don’t. They press into me, like they’ve been waiting for me.
Then pulsing energy. A force deep within me stirring for the first time.
A woman’s voice—but not my mother’s. It cuts through the crackling fire, soft but heavy with meaning.
“Amara,” the voice calls, familiar yet unknown.
The voice reaches inside me, pulling at something buried, something waiting to be found.
I look around, but no one is there. Only the ruins and the fire.My parents are standing at the edge of it all. The voice speaks again, woven into the air like a thread of fate unraveling.
I jolt awake, heart hammering. My skin tingles, as if something invisible brushed against me and left a mark.
I don’t sleep again that night.
The next day, I push it aside. Just a dream. I’m still adjusting to this place, to everything that’s changed. My mind’s inventing symbols and fire because it doesn’t know what else to do.
But the second night, the dream returns.
The same vision—my parents, the destruction, the symbols in the ruins. The same voice, whispering to me, pulling me forward. The same pulse of energy, growing stronger.
One symbol stands out—twisting flame inside a circle of stars. I don’t know what it means. But I feel it, like heat behind my ribs.
I wake again, breathless. My fingers tingle, my chest tight with something I don’t understand. But I shake it off. Just stress. Just grief.
The third night, I stop pretending.
This time, when I see my mother, she steps forward, placing a hand against my cheek.
“It’s time,” she murmurs. The flames burn higher, the ruins clearer, the pulse of energy within me no longer a whisper but a roar. I feel it beneath my skin, wrapping around my ribs, pressing against my heart.
I wake gasping, the air too thick, my skin alight with something I’ve never felt before.
And then I see them.
My parents, standing at the edge of the dream. Their forms shimmer like heat waves.
My father’s gaze is steady and proud. My mother’s eyes hold something deeper—understanding, sorrow, hope. Woven together like threads in the same cord.
“You were meant for more, Amara,” she whispers again.
I step toward them, my throat tightening. “I don’t know how,” I say, my voice shaking. “It’s all too much. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know if I can.”
My father’s gaze softens.
“You’ve always been stronger than you realize,” he says. “You used to cry when the goats ran too close. But when the storms came, you stood outside, arms wide. That’s who you are, Amara. Not the fear, but the standing.”
He smiles and my heart aches.
“Strength isn’t about knowing the answers. It’s about stepping forward even when you don’t have them.”
