The wind carried something different that morning.
Elowen noticed it as soon as she stepped outside. It wasn't just the usual breeze that tousled her hair or tugged at her shawl. No—this wind felt like it had something to say, like it had been waiting for her to come and listen.
She stood at the edge of the meadow, where the tall grass met the woods. Her bare feet pressed into the cool earth, and her eyes followed the path that led toward the glade—her secret place. The place where her heart always felt a little lighter, and the world a little more magical.
She had a small satchel in her hand, one she made herself from an old ribbon and bits of linen. Inside were rose petals from her mother's garden, a pinch of lavender she dried under her bed, and a silver feather—one she'd never seen before, yet had found on her windowsill just this morning.
It shimmered faintly, even now.
Elowen was fifteen, but her soul felt older. She often thought she could hear the thoughts of things that didn't speak. The hum of a tree, the sigh of a flower, the whispered hush of the stars when they blinked awake at dusk. It didn't scare her. It made her feel less alone.
People in the village called her "odd," though they always said it with a smile, like they didn't really mean it—or maybe they just didn't understand her.
That morning, she didn't care. The wind had whispered a name.
Amara.
She repeated it softly, letting the sound drift from her lips like a secret prayer. She didn't know who Amara was, or if the name even belonged to someone real. But it settled inside her like a spark in dry leaves.
As she wandered through the trees, her fingers brushed against bark and leaves, and the forest welcomed her like an old friend. The sunlight filtered down in golden threads, and birds called from high branches, their songs weaving through the stillness.
In the glade, everything felt... waiting.
She stood quietly for a long time, unsure what she was looking for. Her satchel dangled from her hand, and the feather glowed softly in the shade. Her chest ached in that strange, familiar way—not sadness, exactly. Just a fullness. A quiet ache. A flutter.
And that's when it happened.
It started in her chest, small and delicate. Like the brush of wings against the inside of her ribs. Her heart skipped, then beat again, heavier. Softer. Something in her stirred, like the beginning of a dream.
She pressed a hand to her chest, startled. "What...?"
But there was no answer. Just the wind rustling the grass and the quiet hum of the trees.
She knelt and placed the satchel gently in the moss, then stood again, watching the breeze ripple the wildflowers. Something was coming. She didn't know what, but she could feel it—like how you feel the first drop of rain before the storm.
"Amara," she whispered again, her voice barely above breath.
And in that moment, something changed.
It wasn't loud. No flash of light or tremble of the earth. Just a feeling—so deep and so soft it almost hurt. Like someone had just looked at her and really seen her for the first time.
Elowen blinked, suddenly unsure of everything she thought she knew about the forest, about herself. The wind curled around her, lifting the ends of her hair, and in the far distance, she heard music. Just a few notes. High, sweet, and aching.
She turned in a slow circle, searching the trees, but saw nothing.
Still, the flutter in her chest stayed.
And she knew—without knowing how—that this was just the beginning.