Once again, Elowen had nothing.
And so, with only her own thoughts to fill the silence in her heart, she searched the dense cluster of trees near the lake for useful plants.
While there, she lingered a bit longer near a thorny rose bush, feeling the soft petals between her fingertips. Elowen loved flowers, but only ever got to enjoy them in secret here in the quiet forest. These roses were undisturbed and grew large and free in the rich soil.
Oh, how Elowen wished she could take one home with her. Something beautiful to wake up to. A sign of color and life in the uniform blandness of her village.
But she also knew such beautiful things deserved better than to be hidden in shame, which is what would happen if she tried.
With her satchel full and her heart aching, Elowen returned to her village. She sat wordlessly in front of the small fireplace as she crushed herbs and sorted the other ingredients into small jars.
Her eyes grew tired as the night went on, and she had a fitful sleep, waking before the sun. Her back ached from the floorboards, and her bones felt heavier than usual. She stared at the thatched ceiling for a long time, watching a beam of moonlight slip slowly across the room, soft and cold. It reminded her of the lake. The hush of it. The way her reflection always looked gentler there, like the water had a way of softening her features, easing the edges of her weariness.
There was no easing anything in the village.
When she stepped outside with her basket in hand, the village was already stirring with sharp voices and sharper footsteps. No one greeted her. They rarely did, unless it was to ask for a remedy or to comment on the dirt beneath her nails. She walked quietly, like a shadow in her own life, trying not to draw attention.
She took the long path out of the village, down the worn trail that led into the forest. The trees welcomed her with their usual rustle, the canopy reaching overhead like arms shielding her from the world behind her. And yet, even among the trees, she couldn’t shake the weight in her chest.
It was the stone. Its absence. Its disappearance felt like a theft of something sacred, even if it had only been hers for a fleeting moment.
She didn’t know why it hurt so deeply—only that it did. Perhaps because it had felt like proof that something more existed. That the world wasn’t just rigid spines and cold glances and rules. That magic still lived somewhere.
That wonder was not dead.
She didn’t want to return to her village with just plants.She didn’t want to return at all, if she was honest. She imagined staying here in the woods, building a little hut by the lake, living off herbs and fish and rainwater. She imagined stringing flowers into her hair every morning, letting the world see her soft and unhidden.
But dreams like that were dangerous.
So, she walked.
She picked herbs with practiced fingers, her mind elsewhere. She stopped by the rose bush again, hesitating before reaching out to pluck a single bloom. But her hand stilled in the air.No. Not here. Not yet.She let the petals brush her skin, let the scent cling to her fingers, and then turned away.
When she reached the lake again, the light was turning gold. She sat in her usual spot—hersecretspot—where once her strange little treasure had been buried. She traced the shape of the soil with her hand, half-hoping it might reappear like a miracle, but the earth was undisturbed now.
Elowen leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
For a long while, she said nothing. Thought nothing. Just listened. The lake lapped against the shore. Wind shifted the grass. Birds flitted between branches in quiet, feathered arguments.
Then, finally, she whispered into the silence.
“I don’t want to go back.”
The words felt heavier than she expected. She wasn’t supposed to say them. Not even to herself. To doubt the order of things was to invite suspicion. To dream of anything outside the stone walls of the village was to court danger.
But the truth sat in her chest like a weight she could nolonger carry. She hugged her knees to her chest, blinking back the sting in her eyes.
After a while, the restlessness of the previous night caught up with her, and she mindlessly fell asleep at the edge of the lake, listening to the rustling of the leaves in the wind and the chirp of birds hiding in the trees.
She rested for several hours, her body jolting awake with the fear that she had slept through the day and into curfew, but the sun was still high in the sky, on its way down to painting the blue above in shades of purple and orange.
Elowen rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and when she oriented herself once more, the wind carried the soft scent of something…floral into her nostrils.
There, lying next to her, was a rose.
Her breath caught. Not a wildflower or one of the stubborn water lilies that cling to the far edge of the shore—but a perfect, deep red rose, life still clinging to its petals.
Her fingers brushed the stem. It had no thorns, as though whoever left it had thought to remove them before placing it so carefully.
