Charlisa sat by the riverside, hands dipped in the cold stream, eyes watching as the current carried away petals of marigold. Her thoughts were full of the stories she had learned, of plants and rituals, of laughter over shared meals, and the soft glow of Kael's gaze when he watched her work.
The village had become a living map of meaning—one she was still slowly deciphering. Every person, every season, every subtle change in scent or shadow taught her something new. She felt herself sinking into the rhythm of it, not like a foreign seed, but like one that had waited to find the right soil.
Kael found her there, barefoot, skirts damp from the water. He carried a bundle of fresh herbs, his arms dusted with pollen, smile lazy in the golden dusk.
"You disappeared," he said.
"I was listening," she replied, tilting her head toward the water. "It hums differently today."
He stepped closer, setting the herbs down and kneeling beside her. "The mountain winds are shifting. The elders say it's the turn of the warm moon."
Charlisa smiled faintly. "I think I'm starting to hear what they hear."
Kael gave a satisfied grunt. "Soon you'll be speaking to trees and whispering to mushrooms."
She bumped his shoulder. "You mock me now, but last week you asked me which roots would stop your itching rash."
He laughed. "And you saved my life. Or at least my dignity."
They sat in silence for a while, the village behind them murmuring with evening songs and the clatter of pots. Then Kael leaned closer.
"You've changed," he said.
She looked at him. "I've… softened."
"No," he said gently. "You've grown. Like a vine that finally found where to climb."
She turned away, blinking. "You say that like I was lost."
"You were searching. That's not the same."
Charlisa reached out and took one of his hands, callused and warm. "And now?"
Kael grinned. "Now you're trouble for every man who thought they knew how to forage better than you."
She burst into laughter, and he joined in, their joy echoing against the stone and sky.
Later that night, she would help the elder women grind spices for stew, her sleeves rolled up, laughter on her lips. Kael would steal a kiss behind the herb rack, and she would swat him with a dried leaf.
No talk of past lives. No fear of future paths.
Only now—sweet, messy, alive.
The seasons would come. And she would meet each one with open hands.