"Sometimes what we need most… is the lie we wish were true."
---
The night was thick with silence — not the peaceful kind, but the kind that presses on your chest, making each breath feel heavy and deliberate. My room was dark except for the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the window, casting long, pale shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly across the floor.
I hadn't slept. My mind kept circling the same thought: What if there was no way back?
In that aching quiet, I noticed something beneath my pillow.
A letter.
The parchment was worn, soft at the edges from being folded and unfolded more times than I could count. It smelled faintly of smoke and something floral, like the herbs the Elder burned.
My fingers trembled as I lifted it out, heart beating a little too fast, hope and fear tangled in every breath.
The handwriting was familiar — gentle, looping, a mother's handwriting.
"Amara,
I don't know where you are. I don't understand what's happening. But you're my daughter.
I raised you to fear God, but not to fear yourself.
I still don't agree with… everything. I can't say I understand it.
But I remember your laugh. I remember the way you used to sing to yourself when you thought no one was listening.
I want you to be safe.
I want you to be happy.
I want you to come home — when you're ready.
Love,
Mama
My eyes stung with tears I hadn't known were waiting. I folded the letter gently and pressed it to my chest, as if the paper's fragile warmth could fill the emptiness inside me.
For a long moment, I let myself imagine home — the small kitchen filled with the scent of cooking, the worn wooden table where we used to eat, the quiet hum of Mama singing as she worked.
But then, I turned the letter over.
The other side was blank.
No ink.
No words.
Just the cold, smooth surface of untouched parchment.
A sharp ache stabbed through my chest, and I pressed the letter against my lips, whispering, "This can't be real."
---
I ran through the silent halls to the Elder's quarters, my footsteps loud in the emptiness.
She was there, tending to a small fire, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs.
"You gave it to me," I said, voice breaking. "The letter. You put it under my pillow."
The Elder's eyes held no surprise — only calm understanding.
"No," she said softly. "You gave it to yourself."
I blinked, confusion and pain swirling inside me.
"What do you mean?"
"Your heart called it forth," she explained gently. "When the world falls silent, sometimes we have to speak to ourselves in the only way we can. We create the comfort we need, even if it isn't real."
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
"That's not fair," I whispered. "It's not real."
"Most comfort isn't," the Elder replied. "But it still has power. It still heals."
Her words settled deep inside me, strange and true.
---
Later, I found myself at the edge of the lake, the crumpled letter still clutched tightly in my hand.
The water was dark and still, mirroring the twin moons above like a pair of watchful eyes.
A cold breeze whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending a chill down my spine.
I stared at the letter one last time before the wind caught it, teasing it from my fingers.
It fluttered like a wounded bird and then floated down, catching the moonlight in its worn creases before slipping beneath the surface without a single ripple.
Nysa appeared beside me quietly.
"You look like someone broke your ribs," she said softly.
"They did," I murmured. "With a lie I needed too much."
She said nothing at first.
Then reached out and placed two fingers gently under my chin, lifting my gaze to meet hers.
"You don't need anyone's permission to become who you already are."
Her voice was steady, a flicker of warmth in the cold night.
The wind picked up again, carrying with it the scent of rain and wildflowers.
The world felt impossibly large and silent.
---
I stood there a long time, the night wrapping around me like a cloak.
The letter was gone beneath the lake's surface — but its weight lingered.
And I realized something that surprised me:
Sometimes, even lies can give us the courage to keep going.
Sometimes, the truth is less about facts and more about what we choose to believe.
For the first time since I arrived in this strange land, I wasn't waiting to be saved.
I was learning how to find myself.