The inn was louder than usual that night. Travelers from the northern roads had stopped by, bringing with them the smell of dust and sweat, the creak of tired boots, and voices raised in laughter.
Ayra sat in her usual corner, a wooden cup of watered milk in her hands. She wasn't listening to their words—at least, not directly. Instead, she felt them.
It was like standing in a crowded river, water rushing around her in all directions. Their moods pressed against her skin—boisterous mirth from a pair of hunters, a dull weariness from a farmer, the sharp prickle of annoyance from a merchant haggling too long with her father.
At first, she thought she was only tired. But the more she tried to push it aside, the stronger it became, pulling at her until her small shoulders trembled beneath its weight.
One of the hunters laughed too loudly, slamming his mug on the table. The sound rang through the inn, but what Ayra felt was worse—the sudden burst of aggression behind his joy, like fire leaping from kindling.
Her chest tightened. She didn't know why, but it made her want to move, to get away.
Her mother's voice called from the kitchen. Ayra turned, clutching her cup, and in that moment—
CRASH!
The hunter's mug slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. Beer splashed across the boards, and the man's voice rose in irritation.
Ayra's cup fell too, but only because she flinched so hard. Milk splattered across her dress.
Her mother rushed over. "Ayra! Did you hurt yourself?"
Ayra shook her head quickly. "No, Mama."
But her small hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Later, after the guests settled and her parents finished cleaning, Ayra lay in bed staring at the ceiling beams. Sleep didn't come easily.
The world was too loud.
She closed her eyes, hoping to find silence. Instead, the hum was waiting—low, steady, and insistent. She thought it was the wind at first, brushing through the shutters, but no… it was closer.
Step aside.
Her eyes snapped open. The words weren't clear, more like a shiver in her bones than a sound. But she had understood them.
Her breath caught in her throat. "Who's there?" she whispered into the darkness.
No one answered. Only the steady creak of the inn, the distant murmur of her parents' voices below.
The next morning, Ayra carried a basket of bread to the baker's stall. Her steps were light, her blue eyes bright beneath the sun. The air smelled of warm loaves and damp earth.
She reached the corner of the path near the old well—when the feeling returned.
That hum. That pressure in her chest.
Her small feet froze.
The same whisper brushed through her mind: Step aside.
She didn't think. She simply moved, taking two steps back.
A heartbeat later, a cart came barreling around the corner, its wheel wobbling, its driver shouting frantically. One of the barrels tipped, crashing onto the very spot she had just stood.
The wood splintered, water splashing across the ground.
Ayra's heart pounded against her ribs. Her hands clenched the basket so tightly the wicker dug into her palms.
The driver jumped down, cursing under his breath as he checked the broken barrel. "Damn thing nearly hit someone."
Ayra stood frozen, her lips pressed tight. She wanted to say something, anything, but no words would come.
The Silence Afterwards
When she returned to the inn, her mother scolded her for taking too long. Ayra only nodded, setting the basket down without a word.
But inside, her thoughts swirled like storm clouds.
It hadn't been luck. She knew it. Something—someone—had warned her.
Her small fingers curled into fists. She was still only a child, yet she understood this much: the world was watching her. And whatever it was, it didn't want her to ignore it.
That night, long after her parents fell asleep, Ayra whispered into the silence of her room:
"…Thank you."
The wind stirred faintly, cool against her cheek.
And though she could not be sure, she thought the silence grew just a little lighter, as though the world had heard her.