The days after the festival stretched on quietly. Life in the village settled back into its steady rhythm: farmers worked the fields, merchants bargained in the square, children ran through the dusty paths barefoot.
For everyone else, it was the same as it had always been.
But for Ayra, something had shifted.
At first, it was just a feeling—like an invisible thread tugging at the edge of her awareness. She would be walking by the baker's shop and suddenly feel an ache in her chest, only to glance up and see the baker frowning, his hands kneading dough more aggressively than usual.
Or she would pass Mira's mother carrying baskets of vegetables, and though the woman smiled kindly, Ayra felt a strange heaviness seep into her skin, as though the weight of unspoken worry clung to her like damp cloth.
She didn't understand it. The feelings weren't hers, but they pressed against her as though they wanted to be noticed.
And the more she tried to ignore them, the stronger they seemed to grow.
One afternoon, Mira and the other children invited her to play near the riverbank. They skipped stones, splashed in the shallow water, and laughed at each other's clumsy throws.
Ayra tried to join in, but every time she stood near them, she felt tangled in their emotions—an undercurrent beneath their laughter.
Toren, the tallest boy, laughed loudest, but beneath his mirth Ayra sensed a sharp edge, a bitterness as if he wanted to prove something. Mira giggled as she splashed water, but Ayra felt a tremor of unease inside her, as though Mira was afraid of slipping, of falling deeper.
It was exhausting, carrying their unspoken feelings alongside her own.
When Mira called her name, Ayra only shook her head. "I'm tired. I want to go home."
Mira frowned but didn't argue. Ayra turned and left, her bare feet pressing quietly into the dirt path, her heart heavier than it should have been.
That night, she sat by the inn's window while her parents spoke softly in the kitchen. The shutters rattled faintly in the breeze.
She closed her eyes, listening.
And there it was again—that strange hum she had first felt after the festival. It was faint, like a sigh at the edge of hearing, yet it carried weight, as if the wind itself wanted to speak.
When the breeze slipped past her hair, she swore she heard fragments of words, broken and unclear. Not voices exactly, but something between a whisper and a thought.
Her small hands gripped the wooden sill.
"What are you?" she murmured to the night.
The wind brushed her cheek in answer, cool and fleeting.
The next morning, Ayra accompanied her father to the village market. The square bustled with merchants, animals, and shouting voices. Her father bartered for grain while Ayra wandered a few steps away, weaving between the stalls.
She stopped near an old cloth merchant, his stand stacked with faded silks. At first, nothing seemed unusual. But as she stood there, a wave of dread crashed over her chest—so sudden, so heavy she almost stumbled.
Her gaze darted to the merchant. He smiled politely at a customer, his voice steady. Yet Ayra felt it, pulsing from him like a hidden wound: fear, deep and choking.
Her small hand tightened on her tunic. Why?
Before she could dwell on it, her father called her back. The moment she stepped away, the feeling lessened, though the memory of its weight clung stubbornly to her ribs.
That evening, Ayra lay in her bed again, staring at the low ceiling.
The village was small. Its people were ordinary, their lives simple. Yet within that simplicity, she was beginning to notice cracks—hidden burdens, whispered fears, feelings no one else seemed to see.
She turned onto her side, clutching her blanket.
Why me?
There was no answer. Only the quiet creak of wood and the distant call of an owl.
But Ayra made a small decision in her heart: if the world wanted to whisper its secrets to her, she would listen. She didn't know why or what it meant—but she couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.
And so, night after night, she began to pay closer attention. To the silence, to the laughter, to the heaviness that lingered beneath every word.
The world was speaking.
And she, though still a child, was learning to hear.