The moon was a quiet companion that night.
Elowen lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, fingers tangled in her blanket. The feather sat on her windowsill now, still faintly glowing, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. She hadn't spoken about it to anyone—not even her mother. Some things were too fragile to share.
The name still echoed in her chest.
Amara.
It wasn't just a sound anymore. It had become a feeling. A presence. Something that pressed against her dreams and followed her in the quiet hours between sleep and waking.
By midnight, she could no longer lie still. Her heart was too full. She pulled on her cloak over her nightdress and crept outside, careful not to wake the house. The cold air greeted her gently. The moon hung low in the sky, full and glowing, casting a pale silver light over the world.
She didn't need a lantern. The path to the glade was one her feet knew by heart.
Branches arched above her, reaching like fingers to hold the night sky. The forest wasn't silent—never truly. It breathed and whispered, filled with the soft hum of life. Elowen listened with her whole being, each step a prayer she didn't know the words to.
And then she saw her.
Standing in the center of the glade, bathed in moonlight, was a girl Elowen had never seen before.
She was still, her white-silver hair falling past her shoulders like silk, catching the light. Her dress was soft and pale, like woven mist. Her arms were bare despite the cold, and her feet—bare, like Elowen's—rested lightly on the grass. She looked as though she belonged to the forest, as if she'd grown from the roots and shadow herself.
Elowen didn't speak. Couldn't.
The girl turned slowly. Her eyes found Elowen's in the dark, and the world seemed to still. She didn't smile—not quite. But something in her expression softened, like she'd been waiting.
Elowen stepped forward, unsure if she was dreaming.
"I heard your name," she whispered.
The girl's lips parted, and her voice came out like wind in the trees. "Did I give it to you?"
Elowen blinked. "No. The wind did."
A pause stretched between them, as quiet and weightless as snow. Then the girl looked down, as if thinking, before she said simply, "Then you heard right."
Elowen took another step closer, slow and careful. "Are you real?"
"I don't always know," the girl replied, her voice gentle. "Sometimes I feel like I'm made of memory."
"Are you... Amara?" Elowen asked.
The girl nodded. "I think so."
Elowen's breath caught. That name—this girl—it was all real.
Amara turned her face to the sky, eyes half-lidded like she was listening to something only she could hear. "You shouldn't be out here," she murmured. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"It hurts, sometimes," she said, without looking at her. "When something starts before it's supposed to."
Elowen didn't understand, not fully, but the words still reached her.
"I'm not afraid," she said softly.
Amara turned back to her, truly looking at her now. Her eyes were deep, not just in color, but in feeling—like they held entire winters. And there was sorrow there, tucked just beneath her lashes.
"You will be," she said, almost kindly.
Then, just like that, Amara turned and walked toward the trees. She didn't hurry. She didn't vanish. She simply drifted, like a shadow made of silk, her pale figure swallowed by the woods without a sound.
Elowen tried to follow—but by the time she reached the place where Amara had stood, there was no sign of her. Only the hush of night. Only the ache in her chest.
But then, in the grass at her feet, she saw it.
Another silver feather.
Smaller than the first, but just as luminous.
Elowen knelt slowly, fingertips trembling as she picked it up. It was still warm, as though it had just fallen from a living creature. She held it to her heart and closed her eyes, letting the stillness fill her.
She didn't know what this was—what it meant, or what would happen next.
But she knew one thing, deep in her bones.
Amara was real. And this was only the beginning.