(Discovered in a private journal, dated 1714 — the ink faded, the page smelling faintly of smoke and thyme.)
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The Heir of Ash and Hollow
Written in an unsteady but careful hand.
It has been twenty-two winters since the fire in the hollow, and still, the wind carries her name.
The villagers no longer speak it aloud, yet when the crows circle the fields, I know they remember.
I was a boy when I first saw her—Prudence Ashcroft, the woman they feared, the witch they could not burn.
Now I am a man, and I see her reflection in my daughter's eyes.
Her name is Elara.
She was born beneath a blood moon, silent and wide-eyed, just as Prudence once was.
And when she touches the soil, the earth stirs beneath her fingers.
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I have taught her what I remember: the language of the wind, the herbs that heal and the roots that whisper.
At night, she lights a single candle at the window and listens, just as Prudence did.
Sometimes I swear I hear two voices in her laughter—hers, and another's, faint and knowing.
The forest watches her kindly. The ash trees bow when she passes.
Last winter, she dreamed of a woman in white standing beneath their boughs.
"She told me not to be afraid of fire," Elara said.
I told her that fire can destroy—but it can also become light.
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When the frost breaks and the snow turns to silver mist, we will go to the hollow.
She wishes to plant something there—a seed she found wrapped in linen and ash.
She says it hums when she holds it, like a heartbeat waiting to begin again.
Perhaps it is only imagination.
Or perhaps it is the world remembering her.
Whatever grows from that place, I will not stop it.
For I have learned what the elders never did—
You cannot silence what was born of flame.
You can only pass its light to the next hand willing to hold it.
(Signed simply)
— Elias