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She was a quiet one. Always had been, and probably always would be. She often went unnoticed, being as quiet as she was, but she never minded. She could happily occupy herself with books and when she bothered with the world, she preferred the observer's position above any other. She rarely felt that she had something to give and when she did, she gave to those few who acknowledged her existence. Her life was simple enough. She was content.

This changed, of course, as things do. The year when her body decided that it was done morphing into expected yet unrecognisable shapes she came to a troubling realisation: she now wished to be noticed, if by no one else then by the apothecarist's son. That same year, her mother's health had begun to fail and it fell to her to fetch the myriads of medicines prescribed. Nothing seemed to help. She had to return time and again, and more often than not she would see the young man while running her errand. He was pleasant in all possible meanings of the word and, burned with shame as she was by the thought, she came to enjoy her meetings with him - even if he tended to look right through her. For him, she was not there, or at least no more of consequence than a lone moth that had strayed into the shop.

She tried to engage him in conversation but could not quite figure out how. She had never really tried before. There had been no point as she had not had anything to offer. But now a spark had lit, somewhere inside, and she wished to share it. She hoped, if she made herself audible, that he would see her. She tried and tried until she could only taste dust, and the last time she did she thought she felt a wingtip brush her lip.

She thought her lungs and throat were full of caterpillars. They must have been, for she could never speak a word past the butterflies in her mouth. By the end of summer, the apothecarist's son was betrothed, and she fell back to her silence. Soon after, her mother finally faded away.

The girl became a ghost.

One day in early autumn when the sun still had warmth enough to send through golden-red leaves and birds twittered among themselves, preparing to fly to warmer climates, she found a new path splitting the forest near her house.

For a small moment, she stared at it, hesitating. There was something different. Then she looked back and felt that spark flare one last time. She took a step and knew exactly where she was going.

The walk was long, but she never stumbled or faltered. Late in the evening she came to a clearing, like any other clearing in any other forest. The grey-white rock, placed roughly in the middle, looked inviting. She did not question it.

Sitting down on that rock, gathering her tattered clothes about her figure, she waited for the sun to set. As the last rays hit her eyes, blinding her, she opened her mouth and curved her back. Her bony fingers shook.

A cloud of blue and brown butterflies fluttered up to the trees and fell into dust.



/ Passages
/ [Linderel]