Thanks! Here's
The mist rolled in before dawn, slow and ghostlike, covering the forest floor in pale sheets of white. It dulled the morning birdsong, softened the edges of the trees, and made the world feel like a dream—half-formed and delicate. Amara stood at the edge of the glade, wrapped in her shawl, eyes searching the haze as though it might part to reveal the answers she longed for.
She hadn't slept. Not really.
Last night's silence had stretched too long, too tight, wrapped around her like a second skin. After their return from the firelight tree, she and Eliah had barely spoken. The magic was thinning—she could feel it. Something old was stirring beneath the surface of things, whispering to her in ways she didn't yet understand.
She pressed her palm to her chest, right where the ache had begun—small, then blooming like wildflower roots. Maybe this was how pain grew: not suddenly, not with fury, but with a soft sigh in the fog.
"Can't sleep either?"
The voice startled her. It was Eliah's.
He appeared through the fog like a memory she hadn't dared hope for—quiet and warm, his voice carrying a gentleness she hadn't heard in days. He was wearing the faded blue cloak she liked, the one that smelled faintly of pine and safety.
"I wasn't trying," she said softly, not turning to him. "The forest doesn't feel the same anymore."
He didn't reply right away. Instead, he walked to her side and stood silently. For a moment, they were just two silhouettes caught in the early morning hush, with nothing between them but breath and questions.
"Eliah," she whispered. "Did I do something wrong?"
His shoulders tensed slightly, but when he looked at her, his eyes were soft. "No. You didn't. I've just been… afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of what I feel. Of what this is."
Her heart stilled. She dared to look up at him, searching his face for honesty.
"I thought you were pulling away," she said.
"I was," he admitted. "But not because I wanted to."
She frowned. "Then why?"
"Because when I'm with you, I forget how to protect myself." His voice trembled, almost imperceptibly. "You make me feel like something could be real again. And that's terrifying."
A gust of wind fluttered the edges of her shawl. The fog danced around their ankles like a secret it couldn't hold in.
"I've lost people too," she said. "But I'm still here. Still hoping."
"I know." His eyes met hers. "And that's what makes you braver than me."
For a while, they stood there, and the silence was not empty but full of things they were too afraid to say.
Then Amara turned. "Will you walk with me?"
He nodded. "Always."
They slipped through the woods, footsteps muffled by moss and mist. The path was unfamiliar, and yet something about it felt known—as though they had walked it before in dreams. Fog clung to every branch, curled into every leaf, and light filtered through it like a distant song.
"Where are we going?" Eliah asked after a while.
"I don't know," Amara said truthfully. "But I think we'll know when we get there."
He smiled faintly. "Sounds like something my mother used to say."
"Do you think she'd like me?" she asked without thinking.
He stopped walking. "She would've loved you."
Amara's cheeks flushed. "That's sweet."
"It's true. She believed the forest chose people for each other. I think… I think it chose us."
She didn't know what to say to that. Her fingers grazed his for a moment, not quite holding, not quite letting go.
The fog began to lift just slightly, revealing a hollow they hadn't seen before—a clearing framed by silver-barked trees, their branches curled upward like open hands. At the center stood a low stone structure, ancient and cracked, with moss growing thick around its base.
Eliah's brow furrowed. "What is this place?"
Amara stepped forward, drawn by a strange sense of recognition. "I think… it remembers."
She touched the stone, and it pulsed faintly beneath her fingers—warm and gentle, like a heartbeat buried deep in the earth. In her mind, she saw flashes: a woman singing by the fire, a child laughing, a storm tearing through leaves, hands reaching out—then letting go.
"Magic lives here," she whispered.
Eliah was quiet. Then he said, "It feels like the forest is waiting."
"For what?"
"For us to decide."
She turned to him. "Do you believe in fate?"
"I believe in choices," he said. "And I believe in you."
A flicker of something—hope, perhaps—lit inside her chest.
Then, out of the mist, a figure appeared.
It was a girl—no older than Amara—draped in white cloth, her silver eyes reflecting the rising light. She didn't speak, but her gaze was kind, knowing.
Amara stepped back, startled.
Eliah moved in front of her protectively, but the girl only raised a hand in peace.
"I know her," Amara whispered. "She's from the stories. The one they called Lira—the girl who gave up her voice to save the woods."
Lira's smile was sad but serene. She walked forward, stopped just before the stone, and placed her hand on it. The moss shimmered beneath her touch, and a soft melody drifted through the trees—no instrument, no words, just a sound like remembering.
Then she was gone.
Vanished into fog.
Amara felt tears sting her eyes.
"Eliah," she said quietly, "I think this place shows you the truth you're hiding from."
He looked down at her. "And what truth is that?"
She took his hand, this time fully, and didn't let go.
"That we were meant to find each other here. Not by accident, not by chance—but by something deeper. And even if it hurts, even if it ends… it's still worth it."
He looked at her for a long time, and then, finally, he whispered, "You're right."
The mist curled away around them, revealing a brighter sky above the trees. The flicker in the fog was gone—but in its place, something else had been lit.
A beginning. A bond. A truth that would hold through the storms to come.