Song of The Wisp

"It's been a weird day," I mutter, stacking the last washed dish onto the drying rack.
The soft clink of ceramic breaks the silence—too sharp, too loud in the stillness of the kitchen.

Maybe I'm just tired.

I read somewhere that grief messes with your sleep. That major life changes can distort things—make you feel things that aren't really there.

And now, with Kate gone...

I trail off, the thought unfinished, dissolving into the quiet.

My gaze drifts toward the window.
Beyond the glass, the outline of Kate's old garden lies in shadow.
Still unfinished—just a patch of dark, uneven soil and a crooked wooden border.

She always meant to fill it with herbs and moonflowers.
She had names for them picked out. Plans sketched on torn scraps of paper.

Now it's just... still.
Waiting.

Beyond the garden, the trees sway gently beneath the moonlight, silver light flickering across their branches.
And there, caught in the reflection of the glass—My face.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hovering like a ghost.

I blink, shake the thought loose, and flick off the light.

By the time I reach my bedroom, my body feels impossibly heavy.

I don't remember changing. I don't remember sliding beneath the covers.

But I feel it when the world begins to dissolve.

Like water closing over me—
Soft. Weightless.
A gentle sinking, as if I'm being carried somewhere far below the surface.

My limbs fade first.
Then the bed.
Then the room.

Until there's nothing left but darkness. And the quiet pull of something waiting just beyond it.

_________________________________________

There's fog.

Cool, damp, and thick like breath on glass.

I don't know where I am—only that I'm walking.
The ground beneath me is soft, muffled. The air smells of pine and earth and rain.

Shapes begin to form in the mist—tall trees, twisted roots, the shimmer of dew on unfamiliar leaves.
The world is colorless, dreary, and overgrown.

And then—
A light through the thick fog.

Faint. Pale blue.
It flickers ahead of me like a candle in a storm.

I follow without thinking.

The fog begins to lift, just a little. Enough to see the edges of a glade.Enough to feel the air shift—cooler, sharper, alive.

Then a voice.

Soft. Familiar.

"...Aurora Faewyn..."

I stop walking.

The light hovers just ahead, waiting.

"Who are you?" I call.

There's no response.
Just silence.

Then suddenly—
The light flashes, then darts further into the trees, flickering urgently.

A beckoning.

"Aurora..." it calls again, softer now, fading like a whisper in the trees.

I chase after it, feet moving faster, afraid it'll vanish again.
Branches reach for me, roots curl beneath the moss, but I push forward.

"Who is Aurora Faewyn?" I cry, breathless.