Two years had passed since my father’s death, and since then, she has never been the same.
An illness had swept through our village in Edla, my father among the many who didn’t make it.She fell apart when she thought I wasn’t looking.Spent endless nights trying to nurse him back to health—prayed, in hopes the Heavens would hear.
It hadn’t been enough.
After his death, my mother began to wither slowly, like a desert flower denied sunlight.I had sought help from countless healers, but they offered only weak remedies to help with the coughing fits that would take her breath away.
So many nights I would wake to her choking, her body wracked with violent hacking.I had never felt more useless.
I would rush to stay by her side, smoothing the damp strands away from her forehead and whispering reassurances that I hardly believed myself.
“I’m fine,” she would always insist between gasps.
We both knew she wasn’t.Something was stealing her away from me, piece by piece.
On the worst nights—when the coughing wouldn’t stop and her lips took on a frightening bluish tinge—I would stroke my fingers over her face and hum a melody.One my father used to sing.
When he sang, she’d looked at him as if the whole world had melted away.It was just the two of them, wrapped in a moment only they could share.There was a softness in her gaze back then, a quiet kind of love that needed no words.
My voice was never as good as his, but it still brought her comfort.It was never about the song.It was about the memory.
Some nights I would simply lie beside her, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest.Memorising every part of her.
Time had carved itself into her features—the faint lines deepening on her once smooth skin.The delicate streaks of silver threading through her dark hair.She had always seemed unbreakable, too strong to ever fade.
But shewasfading.
No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t ignore the truth.One day she would leave this world.
She would leave me.
I blinked away the sting in my eyes and took another sip of tea, swallowing against the lump in my throat.Outside, the world moved on.The markets would be busy, the streets alive with voices and laughter.Life continued, heedless of loss.
I exhaled, setting the cup on the table.I rose, the wood floor beneath my bare feet anchoring me in the present.
My mothers voice cried out from the courtyard.“My roses!What happened to my roses?!”
I winced.Some secrets were best kept hidden, both the nightmares haunting my sleep and the neighbour’s son who’d destroyed her prized roses.
Today would be interesting indeed.
I slipped into a loose-fitting tunic, the cool linen a stark contrast to the lingering heat that clung to my skin.The draping fabric was soft and worn from years of use, its pale beige hue standing out against the sun-kissed warmth of my complexion.I pulled up my trousers, cinching them at the waist with a simple, woven sash.I worked the familiar knots until it sat comfortably against the gentle curve of my hips.
Turning toward the mirror hanging on the smooth, clay wall, I caught my reflection and nearly choked.My mother was right.My hair did in fact look like shit.
With a heavy sigh, I ran my fingers through the tangled waves of black hair.No matter how many times I combed it or wove it into a neat braid, it always had a mind of its own.
I worked tirelessly to tame the unruly strands, deftly twisting them into a simple braid.Using a leather cord, I bound it tightly, as if that would make a difference.
Reaching beneath my tunic, I brushed the cool metal of my father’s pendant, tracing the patterns before tucking it safely away.The familiar weight against my skin grounded me in a way that nothing else could.
With a deep breath, I stepped outside.
The sun blazed down through the cloudless sky, bouncing off the whitewashed walls with blinding force.I recoiled, throwing an arm across my eyes and stumbling back.“Shit, it’s bright out here.”
A sharp smack landed across the back of my head, lurching me forward.
“Language, Elira!”My mother warned.
