It wasn’t long after our first conversation in the garden that Ungoránë left. To my surprise, his absence left me with an unexpected sense of loneliness. We had only spent a brief time together, yet his departure stirred an ache I didn’t fully understand.
When he returned, I was unprepared for the wave of emotion that swept over me. He approached quietly, a small bundle cradled in his hands, and placed it gently on the table beside my hospital bed. I tried to mask the strange mix of surprise and awe that rose within me, but my voice betrayed me as I spoke. The gift felt like too much, more than I deserved.
If Ungoránë noticed, he was kind enough to not mention it. I was grateful for that. Once again, he invited me to sit in the garden, and once again, he patiently helped me there. His hand gripped mine firmly, his other resting gently on my shoulder as he guided me. I couldn’t ignore the flush of embarrassment at my frailty, but he never spoke of it, never made me feel lesser. Despite my lingering uncertainty, he was the first truly kind soul I ever knew.
We spoke briefly, the sunlight glinting off of the edges of his armor as he told me about his post in Osgiliath. He spoke of the men on his patrol, his voice steady but edged with the weight of responsibility. Then, with a final farewell, he was off—leading a squad of fresh recruits to reinforce the lines there.
I did not open the bundle until right before I left the hospital, weeks after Ungoránë’s departure. When I finally untied the ribbon, I was stunned not only to find the parchment, ink, and a quill, but also two small purses. One held enough gold to see me through several weeks, and the other was enough to pay for a fortnight at an inn; all with a letter outlining where each purse would get me the most value and was still in the part of the city where I would feel safe. Also, an explanation of how to write him back and where to send it.
I tried to offer payment to the nurses and doctors who had cared for me, but they refused outright, brushing off my attempts with kind but firm smiles. In the end, I stayed under their care for nearly a month, slowly regaining my strength. The kindness of Ungoránë, and of those who had looked after me, lingered in my thoughts long after I left, a quiet reminder that perhaps the world wasn’t all cruel.
Once I was settled into one of the inns Ungoránë had recommended, I wrote to him immediately. The act of writing felt strange, so different from my crude attempts with fireplace charcoal. My first draft ended up in the fireplace itself, crumpled into a ball and thrown in a fit of frustration. My trembling hand had made the letters uneven, and the sight of them made my temper flare.
I cursed under my breath, pushing back from the table to pace the small room. This letter had to be perfect. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to prove—only that it mattered. When the realization hit me that I’d wasted a precious sheet of parchment, I cursed myself even louder. Digging my fingers into my hair, I gripped tightly and forced myself to breathe. Calm down! I told myself, though the words felt like a command I could barely obey.
Writing the letter set my nerves on edge. I sat down again, gripping the quill tightly as I fought to steady my trembling hand. Taking a deep breath, I forced my body to relax, though my heart continued to flutter. Why am I so nervous? The question lingered, unanswered, as I pressed the nib to the parchment once more.
This time, I moved slowly, each stroke deliberate, every letter precise. The hours slipped away unnoticed, the world around me narrowing to the quiet scratch of the quill and the steady rhythm of my focus. When I finally signed my name, a wave of exhausted relief swept over me. It felt as if I had poured a part of myself into those carefully crafted words.
I sank back into the chair, a triumphant smile spreading across my face. I had done it—written my first letter. To my first… I hesitated, the word catching in my thoughts. Friend.
The realization sent a flush creeping up my neck, warming my cheeks until I could feel the heat of it. Quickly, yet with great care, I folded the letter, handling it as if it might fall apart under the weight of its significance. I couldn’t let myself dwell too long; the nerves were already creeping back. I resolved to send it immediately—before I had the chance to second-guess myself.
It didn’t take long to find the post office, but my steps faltered as I approached. I lingered outside, watching warily as people moved in and out of the building, their faces indifferent as they carried on with their business. My letter was safely tucked into the pocket of my dress, yet my hand rested over it protectively, as if someone might snatch it away or it might vanish entirely as I moved through the streets.
I stood there, frozen by the conflict in my mind. Part of me longed to march inside and send it without hesitation, while another part bristled with mistrust, convinced it might get lost or never reach its destination. The weight of the letter seemed heavier than it had moments before, carrying with it both hope and fear.
Taking a steadying breath, I forced my feet to move, each step toward the door feeling heavier than the last. The building seemed imposing, its simple structure somehow overwhelming under the weight of my nerves. The moment I crossed the threshold, the air felt stifling, the murmur of voices and the shuffle of movement inside amplifying my unease.
I clutched the letter tighter in my pocket, my fingers trembling as I scanned the room. Strangers milled about—some handing over packages, others exchanging coins or chatting casually with the clerks. They didn’t seem to notice me, yet I couldn’t shake the sensation that every eye was on me, that they somehow knew this letter held a piece of myself.
My heart raced as I approached the counter, and I had to remind myself to breathe. A man stood there, older, with a face lined by years but not unkind. He glanced up from his work and gave me a small nod. “How can I help you?” he asked in a tone that was calm but brisk, used to the endless flow of customers.
I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of my voice. Slowly, I pulled the letter from my pocket and placed it on the counter, my hand lingering over it as if letting go might sever a vital connection. “I n-need… to s-send this,” I said, the words barely louder than a whisper.
The postmaster gave a slight smile and nodded again, his movements efficient as he reached for the letter. My stomach twisted as he inspected it, turning it over in his hands. I fought the urge to snatch it back, irrational fears surging: What if he loses it? What if he reads it? My nails dug into my palm, my left hand spiking in a familiar pain as my nails dug into the sensitive scar, grounding me as I struggled to keep my composure.
“This will need sealing,” he said, his voice drawing me out of my spiraling thoughts. He retrieved a small stick of red wax and lit a flame, melting it over the fold. The sharp smell filled the air as the wax dripped, pooling neatly before he pressed it with a stamp. “There. That should keep it secure.”
I watched, transfixed, as he handed the sealed letter back to me briefly. “Would you like to check it?” he asked, his tone careful, as though he could sense my hesitation. I shook my head quickly, afraid my hands might betray me if I touched it again.
Before he could place the letter into the mailbag, I hesitated. “W-wait,” I said softly, stopping him mid-motion. “D-do you… s-sell the wax?” The question felt strange on my tongue, and my cheeks flushed as I realized how amateur it must have sounded.
He raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity crossing his expression. “We do,” he replied, setting the letter down carefully.
I nodded hesitantly, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. The thought of sealing something with my own hand, something no one else could touch, felt grounding in a way I couldn’t explain. “Yes, p-please, if it’s n-not too expensive.”
He placed wax on the counter alongside the letter. “This will do for most letters. If you want more wax in the future, just stop by.”
I hesitated before handing over the coins, feeling the weight of my choice settle over me. I tucked the wax carefully into my pocket, my fingers brushing over it protectively. “T-thank you,” I said, my voice steadier this time.
He nodded once, his attention shifting back to the letter. With deliberate care, he tucked it into the sturdy sack behind the counter. “It’ll reach its destination,” he assured me, but the reassurance did little to quell the knot in my chest.
As I stepped outside, the weight of the moment hit me fully. My letter was gone—out of my hands and into the world. A part of me felt lighter, freer, but another part remained coiled tight with doubt. Had I just made a mistake? Or had I taken the first step toward something extraordinary?
The days at the inn passed slowly at first, each one blending into the next as I adjusted to a routine I hadn’t known in years. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn’t waking to barked orders or the grueling tasks of survival. The quiet was strange, almost unnerving, but I made myself busy.
I spent my mornings by the window, writing. At first, the lines were hesitant—shaky letters and uneven strokes—but slowly, the motions became smoother. With the extra parchment I had purchased, I practiced folding and sealing blank sheets, testing the feel of wax under my fingertips, making my correspondence more presentable. It was the only indulgent thing I allowed myself, a small luxury in an otherwise frugal life.
Afternoons were spent wandering the city’s streets. The markets, bustling with noise and life, were filled with the smells of fresh bread, spiced meats, and herbs that reminded me of places I’d never been but somehow missed. With the little coin I had, I bought only what was necessary—dried meats, hard bread, a waterskin, and a sturdy cloak. Each purchase felt purposeful, as if piecing together a puzzle I couldn’t quite name.
Evenings were the hardest. Alone in the dim light of my room, I often sat by a flickering candle, turning the small wax stick over in my hands. My thoughts inevitably returned to the letter. Did he receive it? Would he write back? The questions gnawed at me, but I forced myself to push them aside. I had to focus on what came next.
Two weeks passed, and restlessness began to creep in. The innkeeper was kind enough, but I felt the weight of lingering too long, the pull to keep moving. Ungoránë had said the world was vast and that there was a place for me in it. I didn’t know if I believed him, but staying here wouldn’t help me find out.
I began to pack, carefully arranging my few precious belongings into a modest knapsack. It wasn’t much, but it felt like enough to start. A flicker of excitement bloomed in my chest—tentative and cautious, overshadowed by the familiar nervous twist in my stomach, yet undeniably real. I wasn’t sure what I was heading toward, but for the first time, I felt ready to find out.
My stomach gave an impatient growl as I slid a packet of food wrapped in wax paper into my knapsack. “Now, s-stomach, that’s for l-later,” I murmured, patting it gently as though it might listen.
The mapmaker I had visited earlier told me it would take nearly ten days to reach Minas Tirith on foot. I’d left the shop in a mild panic, staring down at the thin, secondhand town shoes on my feet. How was I supposed to make it that far in these? With the gold carefully hidden in belts around my waist—an old habit of survival—I bought a pair of sturdy boots. They weren’t new, but they were strong, far better than the worn, thin-soled shoes I had been relying on.
Next, I tucked in my writing bundle. My fingers lingered on it for a moment, and a small smile crept onto my lips. It was the first true gift anyone had given me. The bundle was simple yet thoughtful—a small stack of parchment, a vial of ink, and a quill tied together with a dark ribbon. At the time, it had felt extravagant, a token of kindness I wasn’t sure I deserved. Now, every time I used it, it filled me with warmth, a reminder that someone had seen value in me.
When my father sent me away from our family farm, all I had were a few belongings wrapped in a threadbare blanket. That journey had taken a single day, and I had ridden in the back of a neighbor’s cart. But this journey was different.
I let the emotions wash over me—fear, uncertainty, and hope. It was hope, blossoming like the flowers in the garden of the healing house, that stayed with me most.
As I secured my belongings into a well-made canvas knapsack—one I had purchased myself—a swell of emotion overcame me. These items, though simple, felt like a victory. They weren’t just objects; they were symbols of a new life. A life I was beginning to shape for myself. I treasured them not just for their practicality, but for what they represented: the fragile yet undeniable hope of moving forward.
Once I was sure everything was in its place, I crawled into the bed I would leave behind the next morning. My fingers lingered on the straw mattress, its clean scent tickling my nose. It wasn’t luxury, but it was comfort. I closed my eyes and let the stillness settle over me, knowing that tomorrow, I would begin something entirely new.
The next morning, before the sun had risen, I grabbed the few belongings I had packed the night before and tugged on my new boots. The mist clung to the streets like a veil, wrapping the city in a cold, damp stillness. Each breath escaped my lips in soft clouds, the chill bit at my exposed skin. The weight of my knapsack on my shoulders felt grounding, though my heart thudded with a mixture of excitement and unease.
As quickly and quietly as I could, I wove my way through the winding streets towards the city gates, where the road to the great White City awaited. A few tradesmen were already stirring, their carts creaking and their murmurs to each other carrying family through the mist. I caught a few curious glances from them, their eyes lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle.
Instinctively, I pulled my cloak tighter around me, trying to disappear into its folds. The fear that I still might be recognized, that someone might call out and drag me back, clung to me like the mist itself. I hurried forward, keeping my head low, my steps quick and deliberate.
The gates loomed ahead, dark and shadowed against the pale haze of morning. Beyond them lay the open road, a path both terrifying and full of promise. The path to my future life of freedom. The guards here lazily leaned on pole arms, or against the portcullis, their postures relaxed and disinterested. I hesitated, my steps forward faltering as a cold knot of fear tightened in my chest.
Ugly memories surfaced unbidden, clawing at the edges of my mind. The echo of harsh voices, the weight of rough hands on my skin, dragging me back into the darkness— I blinked hard, shaking my head as if to shake the cobwebs of those memories out, banishing them. My fingers had gripped the edges of my clock tightly, my knuckles pale against the dark fabric. I could not stop now. Not here, not when I was so close. I forced my legs to take another step, and then another. Each one carried me closer to the threshold of my new life.
The closer I got to the gates, the louder my thoughts became. What if they stop me? What if they ask questions? What if someone recognizes me? My legs felt like lead, every step a battle against the fear clawing at my resolve.
The guards barely glanced at me as I approached, their eyes dulled by routine and disinterest. Still, I couldn’t stop the flood of memories again—their faces, voices laughing, hands heavy…beating… searching….exposing…
STOP! I yelled at myself. My breath hitched, and I forced my head lower, letting the shadow of my hood shield my face. You’re free now, I gripped the straps of my knapsack tightly. The weight of it, grounding, but my words rang hollow even to myself. I wasn’t sure I even knew what freedom felt like. Could I truly ever be free of the things I had done, the things they had done to me?
A sharp gust of wind swept through the gate, tugging at my cloak. It carried the faint scent of damp earth, and something else—possibility, perhaps. My steps quickened as the road stretched out before me, but my heart refused to settle. I hesitated again, just outside of the gate, the world ahead vast and unfamiliar. My hands felt clammy as I adjusted the knapsack, stealing one last glance over my shoulder. The city was waking up behind me, its bustling noise beginning to stir the mist. And just like that, I was out.
You’ve already survived the worst, I reminded myself, firmly. You can do this. Keep walking.
And so I did, one step at a time, with the weight of my past at my back and the uncertain promise of freedom before me.
The wind blew off of the Sirith to the west, its chill biting through my cloak and causing my body to shiver involuntarily. The breeze carried with it an odd mix of emotions—cold discomfort and a strange, fluttering excitement as I started on my way. The fog that had clung so stubbornly to the city began to thin here, being swept away by the wind, revealing the open road.
By midday, when the sun had reached its highest point, I had already decided that traveling on foot was not as romantic as I’d imagined. I had stopped several times already, tugging off my boots to rub my aching and blistered feet. For a short while, I walked without them, hoping the cool ground might soothe the pain. But the gravel bit into my soles, forcing me to pull the boots back on with a hiss of frustration.
Each time I stopped, I allowed myself only a small portion of food from my pack—a nibble of dried fruit, a bite of break. I knew I had to converse my provisions for the ten days ahead. Still, hunger gnawed at my stomach, a constant reminder of how precarious this journey would be. In the back of my mind, a thought constantly nagged at me: Should I have left the city?
I was only a few hours out. If I turned back now, I could make it back before sunset, slip into the city unnoticed, be back at the inn, and pretend this silly decision had never happened. The idea teased at the edges of my mind, whispering of safety and familiarity. But I shook my head firmly, dismissing the thought as I finished nibbling on the cracker in my hand. No, I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to return to that place, where the memories haunted me at every turn. Memories that clung like shadows to every surface, impossible to escape.
I straighten my back, slipping back on my boots despite the ache in my feet. One step, and then another. The road kept going on and on, rough and uncertain, but it was mine to walk. I made this choice. I had the freedom to make this choice. I refused to let the past pull me back into his wicked embrace.
The warmth of the sun on my back grew oppressive, the dark gray wool of my dress clinging uncomfortably to my skin. Each step seemed heavier, trapping the heat against me. I let out a quiet sigh, wishing that I had thought to purchase one of the light, white linen dresses I’d seen displayed in a shop window days ago.
But it was much too late now. The thought of turning back crossed my mind briefly but I dismissed it with a shake of my head, again.
I chided myself, A little discomfort is nothing.
Still the weight of the wool felt stifling, and I adjusted the color with a frustrated tug. I still kept walking.
When evening finally came, the sun’s warmth faded, replaced by the cool breeze blowing in from the plains and the river. Only then was I thankful for my wool dress and cloak, their weight now a comfort instead of a burden. But as the night air grew even chillier, I realized my mistake—I had no idea how to make camp.
Pulling my cloak tighter around me, I walked a few more paces before deciding to leave the road and try my luck finding shelter. I stepped off the path, the open plains stretching endlessly around me. The wind cut through my layers, chilling me to the bone. My cloak and dress offered little protection against its sharp bite.
I tried huddling against a small rise in the land, wrapping myself tightly in my cloak, but the cold seemed to seep into my very bones. And then there were the sounds—the eerie cries of strange, unknown creatures echoing in the darkness. Each noise sent a shiver down my spine, my heart pounding louder than ever.
Sleep was impossible. My fear wouldn’t allow it, and the cold refused to relent. Eventually, I gave up, pulling myself to my feet and making my way back to the road. The clear sky above offered little comfort, though the rising moon cast its silvery light across the landscape, bright enough to guide my steps.
I kept walking. My legs ached, my eyes burned with exhaustion, but the thought of stopping again—of being alone in the dark—was worse. The road stretched endlessly ahead, and so I trudged forward, one step at a time, chasing the faint hope of morning.
One foot in front of the other, I told myself, well, more like chanted to myself as I walked. The sky grew darker as the moon ducked below the mountains, signaling that the sun would soon be rising, but I could see lights ahead. I made it to the small village as the sun peaked above the horizon, bathing everything in a warm red and orange. The temperature had dropped before sunrise but now the light of the morning felt amazing, and I could feel the warmth heating my cold skin.
A few women were already out of their homes, walking with baskets, and a few stood around the well. A young boy was pulling at the rope, bringing up a bucket brimming with water. Men waved to the women as they moved away, carrying farming equipment and leading large horses burdened with packs and harnesses. Some horses were hitched to carts and they rambled past me, onto doing their day’s work.
I stood back, suddenly afraid of these people that I didn’t know. How would they respond to me? Would they be like my father and mother, angry to be bothered by travelers on the road? Annoyed that someone might ask for something when they had nothing themselves? I trembled from my position right off of the road, staring anxiously and enviously into the town. Shifting from foot to foot, I played through different scenarios in my head, and none of them ended well. I almost turned and began walking again.
“Oiy there lass, didja walk a’night?” A woman spoke to me from my left, I did not notice how close she had gotten, I was so wrapped up in my worries.
I gave a little jump of surprise, focusing on keeping my hands clasped in front of me.
“Didja hear me, lass?”
I gave a jerky nod of my head, as my throat closed up and I found that I could not utter a word.
“Ah, sweet thang,” the woman moved closer to me. She was a larger woman, her skirts flowing around her like a small tent, but she still moved with a quick speed. Her hair was tied up under a bonnet, the bill already protecting her eyes from the morning sun. Her dress was of earthen colors and I found them calming to look at. The woman reached out for me, carefully wrapping work hardened hands around my thin shoulders.
“Look at ye, yer skin and bones! What’re ye doin’ walkin’ out ‘ere in the open where anythin’ can get at ya! You must’ve been freezin’!” She pulled me towards the well where the other women stopped their work and looked up.
“Pull up some water, lad,” the woman motioned to a young boy who moved to begin pulling at the rope.
Five women stood around the well, and two sat on overturned buckets, while the others chatted aimlessly, but all stopped and looked up as she drew me nearer.
“This ‘ere young thang needs some rest, poor dear, she walked a’night from the city!” The round woman who had me in her strong grasp spoke to the other ladies who suddenly surrounded me, making comforting noises. They all spoke at once, and I attempted to keep up, nodding to one, and shaking my head to another. My fear began to ebb away as they sat me down on one of the buckets that were overturned. They reminded me of the gentle nurses at the hospital and I could feel the sting of tears jump into my eyes and I ducked my head.
“She’s tired, the poor dear; come on, follow me.” The large woman pulled me gently away from the comforting hands of the other women and marched me straight through a door into a warm and open cottage nearest to the well.
“This be my home, yer welcome to sit wh’re ya like.” She moved into the kitchen while I hugged my knapsack and found a small stool to sit on near the hearth, letting the fire warm my back.
Not unlike the farmhouse where I grew up, the living area and the cooking area merged into one large room. Large pots hung from hooks in the open ceiling and crates were stored in the rafters, presumably with things that were not always needed. To the left of the doorway, a large hearth dominated the wall and crackled with a large fire. An iron pot hung from another hook pounded into the stone of the hearth and I could hear its contents burbling and bubbling. On the wall furthest from the door, thick wood countertops were built into the wall and a wash bin filled with soapy water stood under the window. The woman disappeared through another doorway that stood to the right of the hearth into a back room.
To my right, a long table took up the rest of the room, with benches on both sides and two ornately carved chairs at each end of the table. It looked well used with scrapes on the floor where the benches had been moved back and forth from people sitting and leaving. It was such a beautiful little cottage.
The woman moved back into the room, the bonnet removed from her hair and an apron wrapped around her ample middle, “Th’re now, that’ll do it.”
I stared at her, not quite sure what she meant to do. She bustled around the kitchen area, rolling up her sleeves as she went. She whipped a small rag off a bowl and the smell of freshly risen dough filled the room. My traitorous stomach growled. She smirked as she glanced up at me as she gently beat the dough. “We’ll get this in the oven right quick, and that’ll be that.” A few quick flicks of her wrist and the large pound of dough became four beautiful shaped loaves.
“Now th’re, girly, ‘ave you ever churned butter before?” She moved towards a modest churn and brought it over to my stool. I realized she was waiting for my response to see if she needed to show me. Silent, I placed my knapsack next to my feet, not willing to let it out of my sight, and took a hold of the churn handle and attempted to start churning the butter. The last time I had done this was at my parents’ farm as a child. Those memories felt like another person’s life that I watched from the edges of dreams.
The older woman smiled over me, gently patted my shoulder before moving back and placing the bread on a thin board with a long handle. “I believe in feedin’ anyone who comes off of the road, but not without ‘em doin’ some work for it.” She placed the long-handled board on the large table and covered the unbaked loaves she had just formed with a cloth. With movements that spoke of routine, she then pulled another thin cloth from a basket by the window and pulled out a half loaf of bread. She gave me a warm smile when she handed it to me, “for ya to snack on until we get to luncheon.”
I was still silent as I sat and worked the butter churn, my arms growing tired, but I kept at it, only stopping to nibble on the half loaf she had given me. The woman worked tirelessly, bustling around the kitchen. After a time, she came over, motioning for me to stop. I leaned back, letting my arms hang at my sides. Dizziness overcame me; my long walk and my sleepless night hitting me and causing me to fall back against the wall. My eyes were heavy.
“Aw, you poor dear. Let’s get you some rest, love.” The woman helped me to my feet, and I reached down for my knapsack. “Tch, just leave it, deary. It’s safe ‘nough in here. ‘Though, if you’d feel better, I’s can hang it by the door.” She reached down and easily lifted it and hung it on hooks that were on the wall above my head. I warred with the feeling of wanting to snatch it up, against the trust I was beginning to feel. She gave a quick nod of satisfaction and smiled down at me, “You can call me Caoimhe.”
“H-hello.” My voice sounded brittle to my ears, as if my mouth was unused to making sounds. She smiled again, sending my heart pounding, but not in fear. I didn’t understand what I was feeling.
Once she moved the churn aside, she helped me to my feet. Thankfully, my feet decided to hold me up. She led me to the room that she had gone into before. A large bed took up most of the space, but along the wall was a smaller bed, as if for a young person. “My daughter ‘as been long married, but ev’ry so often she comes to visit us, an’ we leave this, so she ‘as a place to stay. Get some rest, and when you ‘wake, we can talk more.” As I sat heavily on the straw mattress, which I could tell was filled with fresh straw from the smell, my body nearly gave out.
Caoimhe moved towards a wooden chest, opened it, and pulled out a beautiful quilt. When she returned to me, she placed her worn hand on my head, caressing my hair. I almost wept due to her gentleness. She helped me lay down, covered me with the quilt, and my eyes closed of their own accord.
The only thing that gave me any indication that I was still breathing were my dreams. They filtered into my unconscious mind. I dreamt of my childhood. My mother happy, my father caring. Our farmhouse was warm from the heat of the hearth. Dried herbs hung on the chimney, the heated stones helping them dry. The stew bubbled as my mother told me things I could now not recall. The world as it was…was perfect. I felt loved. I was wanted…
The next dream unfolded like a gentle breeze, carrying me to a garden bathed in soft, golden light. The floral scent was strong but not overwhelming, a blend of sweet blooms and earthy undertones that wrapped around me like a comforting embrace.
I wasn’t alone. A strong presence sat beside me, steady and grounding. Though I couldn’t see them—no, not them, him—clearly, I felt his warmth radiating like sunlight after a storm. It wasn’t the kind of heat that scorched or overwhelmed, but the quiet, steady warmth that reached deep into the coldest parts of me. There were no words spoken between us, but none were needed. The silence was profound, filled with an understanding that transcended language, an unspoken connection that felt more powerful than any words could convey.
The feelings the dream held were impossibly vivid. My heart, so often burdened by fear and uncertainty, felt light—free. A sense of safety enveloped me, so complete and unshakable that it brought an ache to my chest, bittersweet and unfamiliar. It was as if I had stepped into a memory that wasn’t mine, yet belonged to me all the same.
I reached out—not with my hands, because dreams are strange that way—but with something deeper, feeling. And I felt him respond. His presence was steady, unwavering, meeting me with a calm that melted the tension I hadn’t even realized I carried. My breathing slowed, my body relaxed, and the garden around us seemed to bloom brighter, as if the dream itself were alive, echoing our shared connection.
For a fleeting instant, I wanted to stay there forever. The ache of safety, the warmth of connection—it was everything I hadn’t known I craved. But even as the dream held me close, reality began to pull at its edges. The garden softened, its golden light dimming, the floral scent dissolving into the cool, quiet air of waking.