Once more, Amora nestled beside Clover’s head, her small fingers tracing lazy circles through the cow’s soft hide. The big, gentle creature let out a slow breath, warm and sweet, her steady presence wrapping around Amora like a hug. This was their secret place, their quiet world where no one shushed her or told her to stop asking questions. Animals never thought she was strange. Animals always listened.
From her pocket, Amora pulled a handful of fresh clover, the little leaves still dewy from the field. She held them out in her palm, and Clover’s rough tongue tickled as she took them, chewing with slow, thoughtful appreciation. Amora smiled. Clover understood. Clover always understood.
The sky was changing, painted in swirls of gold and rose, and Amora knew what it meant. The sun was dipping, time was slipping, and home was waiting. She sighed, pressing a kiss between Clover’s soft ears. “I have to go,” she whispered. “I wish I didn’t.”
The cow blinked as if she understood and wished the same.
Amora brushed the dust from her skirt and turned toward home. But just as she started walking, a sound called to her from the sky—wild and free. Geese flying south.
Her head snapped up. A long, rippling V stretched across the sky, their wings beating strong and sure, their voices filling the air. Something inside her ached at the sight of them. Take me with you, she thought. Take me where no one can tell me who I should be.
The wind answered, curling around her like a whisper, rustling the trees, stirring the hem of her dress. She didn’t know what it was saying, not exactly, but she felt it. The wind knew her name. It always had.
A sharp caw shattered the moment.
Amora turned, her eyes landing on the raven perched high above her, black and still as a shadow. It’s you again. The bird had been following her for as long as she could remember, always watching. She wasn’t afraid of it. If anything, she felt like she should know it, like they had met before—somewhere beyond remembering.
“Who are you?” she asked in a hush. “Should I know you?”
The raven cocked its head, as if amused by her question. Then, without warning, it lifted off, its wings slicing through the twilight, vanishing into the unknown. A shiver ran down Amora’s spine—not from the evening chill, but from something deeper. The raven always appeared before something changed. What was it trying to tell her this time?
She didn’t have time to wonder. The lanterns in her home were already flickering against the windows, a sign she was late.
Hurrying across the yard, she stepped through the doorway, into the thick warmth of the kitchen. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the space, wrapping around her like a blanket. But it wasn’t real warmth. Not the kind that mattered.
She slipped into her seat at the table, keeping her head down, but it didn’t matter. She could feel her father’s gaze settle on her like a weight. “You’re late,” he muttered.
“I lost track of time.” Her voice was small and careful. She kept her eyes on her plate. She knew how his moods shifted, how sometimes he was quiet, but sometimes he wasn’t.
A heavy silence filled the room as she reached for a slice of bread. She wanted to tell them about the geese, about the raven, about the way the wind whispered her name. The words bubbled up inside her, ready to spill over—
“No talking at the table, young one.” Her father’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and final.
Amora swallowed the words, swallowed everything she wanted to say, and turned her eyes back to her plate. She cast a glance at her mother, but, as always, there was no comfort there.
They didn’t see what she saw. They didn’t hear what she heard.
They didn’t believe, or so she thought.
Eventually Amora stopped telling them about her discoveries. She learned to keep her stories tucked away, hidden like little treasures meant only for herself. Instead, she spoke to her stuffed animals and dolls, friends who never doubted or hushed her. She whispered to the forest creatures and farm animals, the only ones who understood without question.
And then there were the others. The ones no one else could see.
They appeared in the quiet moments, when the loneliness felt like too much. They brought warmth where there was none. They told her stories when the house was silent. They made her laugh when no one else did.
They believed.
And deep inside, Amora knew that something—someone—out there believed in her, too.
Mystical blessings,
Amora the Mystic
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