The scent of warm bread met her at the corner, sweet and familiar. glowed with its usual life: the clatter of trays, the creak of the old sign swinging gently in the still air, Brenna’s humming rising and falling like a lullaby wrapped in flour.

  But something inside Auren was still unsettled.

  The feeling from yesterday hadn’t vanished. That emptiness—silent, complete—lingered in her memory like the echo of a bell. It had happened before, here and there, in brief and quiet spells. But never like that. Never so deep it made her afraid.

  That hollow stretch of silence still clung to the edges of her mind, like a room with no echo. It frightened her, not because it hurt, but because it didn't. Because in that moment, she'd felt nothing at all—and part of her hadn't wanted it to end.

  What if it happened again—but this time, she didn’t come back?

  What if she became an emotionless husk forever?

  She shook the thought off. She couldn’t let Brenna—or anyone—see her that way.

  So she put on her smile like a cloak, as if nothing had happened, and stepped inside.

  By midday, the bakery pulsed with life.

  The air was thick with the scent of warm sugar and rising dough, and the shelves were already half-picked over. Auren worked with sleeves rolled high, her hands moving on instinct—kneading, brushing, lifting trays with a quiet rhythm. Lira sat quietly by the window, crown of herbs on her head, drawing patterns in the fogged glass with a lazy finger.

  Behind the counter, Brenna elbowed Auren gently.

  "Word is," she said in a low voice, "Mara was seen carrying a basket of ripe pears into Farros’s forge. Uninvited. With a smile."

  Auren arched a brow. "You think she’s sweet on him?"

  "I think she’s making excuses to see him," Brenna replied. "And bringing pears. Which is either affection, or a declaration of war, depending on how much you like pears."

  "She’s always liked her men strong and silent," Auren mused.

  "Silent’s the key," Brenna said. "And with how Mara rants on and on? Imagine the horrors if he started matching her word for word. We'd lose Farros in a day."

  They both laughed softly. A bell chimed from the oven, soft and clear. Outside, the sound of children laughing drifted through the open window. Lira, still in her own world, pressed her herb crown tighter onto her head and yawned.

  "You know," Brenna continued, lowering her voice as she pulled another tray from the oven, "it’s good having you here."

  Auren blinked, caught off-guard.

  "You don’t have to say that."

  "I don’t," Brenna said. "But I mean it."

  Auren smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned back to the dough, pressing her palms into it with gentle care, gaze drifting toward the window.

  The sun hadn’t moved—the sky never changed here—but something in her stirred like a bird too long kept in a cage. She finished shaping the last roll, dusted her hands, and set her apron aside.

  "I’m going to step out for a while," she said.

  Brenna looked up from her tray, surprised but not questioning. "All right, love. You know where to find me."

  Auren nodded, already moving toward the door.

  She didn’t take the main path. Her feet knew another way—quiet, winding, forgotten by most. She didn’t think about where she was going. She didn’t need to.

  The forest pressed in slowly around her, the village giving way to ferns and moss-covered stones. Tall trees rose like ancient watchmen, their trunks gnarled and silver-barked, their leaves whispering secrets overhead. Somewhere nearby, a thrush called out—a sharp, fluting note that echoed through the canopy. A squirrel darted across her path, pausing to study her with quick, dark eyes before vanishing into the underbrush.

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  She walked for a long while.

  It wasn’t direction she sought—it was distance. The deeper she went, the quieter the noise became. The air here didn’t ask questions. The trees never looked at her like they expected something. And that, today, was enough.

  The air grew cooler beneath the trees, and shafts of gold broke through the leaves in slender beams, painting her path with shifting light.

  Then—by the roots of a low ash tree—she saw a single jasmine blossom blooming wild.

  It shouldn’t have been there. Not this deep. Not alone.

  Auren knelt and reached for it.

  The moment her fingers touched the stem, the petals quivered—then slowly began to unfurl, fuller and more vibrant than before. The jasmine bloomed in her hand, pale and radiant, as if drawn to her warmth. It pulsed with life, delicate but glowing, impossibly whole.

  A small, quiet smile touched her lips. She stared at it for a long moment, warmth blooming somewhere deep inside her chest.

  And then she stood and kept walking.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been gone when she finally reached the creek. The trees parted just enough to reveal it—a narrow ribbon of water slipping between mossy stones, its surface broken now and then by drifting leaves or the flick of a dragonfly’s wing.

  She sat beside the creek, letting the quiet rush of water fill the silence inside her.

  Here, at least, she didn’t have to pretend. There was no one to smile for, no one to tell her she looked tired, no one asking if she’d made the balm right or remembered the roots. Just the sound of water, and the ache that never fully left her chest. The grass was soft beneath her, the earth cool and damp, and she leaned back slowly, propping herself on her elbows before lying fully down. The golden light filtered through the branches above, and for the first time in days, she let herself feel it—warmth on her skin, the gentle hum of life around her.

  She closed her eyes. The breeze brushed against her cheeks, and the steady sound of the water lulled her into stillness.

  Time passed, unmeasured.

  Eventually, her throat ached with thirst. She sat up slowly, blinking against the light, and crawled to the creek’s edge. The water was clear, cold, its surface rippling over the stones. She bent down to drink, cupping her hands.

  When she looked up again, her gaze caught on the reflection.

  A man stood behind her—his hair pale gold, almost white in the sunlight, and his eyes…

  They burned like suns.

  He was staring at her over her shoulder, unmoving, eternal.

  Her breath hitched—sharp, instinctive. A jolt of cold rushed through her limbs as her eyes widened.

  But when she turned around—there was no one there.

  The forest stood still, sun-dappled and quiet, just as it had before. But something had shifted.

  She crouched beside the water again, trying to steady her breath, but her hands trembled. She looked at the surface one more time, half-hoping it would be blank.

  It wasn’t.

  The reflection was still there. Not the man. Just her.

  But her lips were moving.

  No sound came, but she understood the words anyways:

  How long do you want to live in this lie?

  She scrambled back from the edge, heart pounding in her ears. When she looked again—nothing. Just her own pale face, wide-eyed and silent.

  She stood quickly and left without looking back.

  The walk back felt longer.

  By the time she returned to the shop, the light inside was low and warm. The ovens had gone quiet, and Brenna was wiping down the counters with slow, tired motions. She looked up the moment Auren stepped through the door.

  "There you are! I was starting to think you’d run off to the forest for good."

  Auren gave a small shrug, brushing a leaf from her sleeve. "Thought about it."

  Brenna smiled, then tilted her head slightly, watching her. "You all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

  Auren hesitated. "Just tired. Needed some air."

  "Mm-hm," Brenna said, not pressing, though a faint crease lingered between her brows. She set the cloth aside, more gently this time.

  "You know," she added after a moment, tone light but unmistakably pointed, "Sepandārmazgān is in three days. You are going, aren’t you?"

  Auren blinked. "Probably not."

  "Oh, don’t be like that," Brenna said, waving a hand. "You’re young, you’re beautiful, and honestly, half the village is probably planning how to win your hand already. I’ve heard Farros mention you twice this week, and that shy boy from the orchard—what’s his name—Miran? No, too short. There’s also Kaveh, the miller’s son, and oh, Tamir said something about inviting you, didn’t he?"

  She tapped her chin dramatically, eyes alight. "But if I had to put my coin on anyone, it’d be Darien."

  Auren blinked again. "Who?"

  Brenna groaned. "Darien. Tall. Always polite. Helps his mother at the seamstress shop. You healed his sister’s bee sting last summer."

  "I have absolutely no idea who you’re talking about."

  "You do! He trains with the guards, near the orchard most mornings. Wears a green sash and never speaks unless spoken to." She narrowed her eyes. "And every time you walk past, he stares like he’s forgotten how to breathe."

  Auren laughed softly, the sound surprising even her. "If he’s that desperate, let him send a letter and a flower. Isn’t that tradition?"

  "It is," Brenna said, eyes gleaming. "So if he does… you’ll say yes?"

  Auren gave a half-smile. "If it means you’ll stop talking about it—then yes."

  Brenna beamed.

  Auren turned away, but her smile faded as she walked toward the stairs.

  Later, Auren sat by the window, the lamp unlit beside her. The golden light outside had softened, but never dimmed. The village murmured gently below—laughter, distant voices, the quiet thrum of a world that never slept.

  She rested her chin on her knee, gaze distant, fingers tracing idle shapes against the glass.

  She knew the letter would come.

  But she didn’t know what to hope for when it did.