The days after the cart incident passed in uneasy silence. Ayra carried her chores as usual, swept the floors, peeled vegetables, and served bread to travelers, but a restlessness clung to her.
The world had spoken to her.
No—warned her.
And she couldn't pretend it hadn't happened.
The village square bustled with color and sound. Once a year, the people gathered to celebrate the end of the winter planting, stringing banners across wooden stalls and filling the air with laughter.
Ayra's parents brought her along, eager for a brief escape from the inn's endless work.
"Stay close, Ayra," her mother warned as they passed the stalls. "There are more people today."
Ayra nodded, though her attention wandered. The laughter, the smells, the clash of coins and chatter—it was overwhelming. Each sound carried with it an echo, the same hum she always felt.
But today, it was sharper, more insistent.
At the center of the square, children gathered for a small game. A barrel had been laid on its side, and the braver ones climbed atop, daring to balance as long as possible.
Ayra watched, drawn by their laughter. Her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity, though her heart thudded strangely.
A boy, no older than ten, scrambled onto the barrel. The crowd cheered as he spread his arms wide, grinning. The barrel rocked beneath his weight—once, twice—
And then Ayra felt it.
That pull.
Her breath caught. She saw it in her mind before it happened: the barrel tilting too far, the boy falling, the stone edge of the well just behind him.
Warn him, something inside urged.
Her small voice rang out before she even thought:
"Move left!"
The boy blinked, startled—and shifted.
The barrel tipped, but instead of cracking his skull against the well, he stumbled harmlessly into a patch of hay nearby.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Parents rushed forward, pulling the boy up. He laughed, unhurt, brushing straw from his clothes.
But many eyes turned to Ayra.
The village elder, a stooped man with white hair and a staff of polished oak, approached slowly. His gaze lingered on Ayra, sharp and searching.
"You," he said softly, his voice carrying despite the noise. "Child… how did you know?"
Ayra froze. Words tangled in her throat. She wanted to lie, to say she only guessed—but the weight of his gaze made her chest ache.
"I… I just… felt it," she whispered.
The elder studied her for a long moment. Then, to her surprise, he smiled faintly. "The world whispers in many ways," he murmured. "Few listen. Fewer still understand."
Her parents, standing nearby, stiffened. Her mother placed a protective hand on Ayra's shoulder, her brows drawn tight.
"She's just a child," her mother said firmly. "Children say strange things."
The elder only nodded. "Perhaps."
But his eyes lingered on Ayra until he turned away.
That night, as Ayra lay awake, her parents whispered outside her door.
"She's… different," her mother said, her voice thick with worry.
"She's our daughter," her father replied, though his tone was uneasy. "Different or not, that doesn't change."
Ayra pulled the blanket tighter around her. She didn't want them to fear her. She didn't want anyone to look at her like she was strange.
Yet deep down, in the quiet place inside her chest, she knew this was only the beginning.
The world had whispered to her. And now… others had heard it too.