The fire had already devoured everything.
Or maybe... I had always been there—watching it happen through the eyes of a little girl.
A child that was me, even if not exactly me.
My soul. My memory.
I watch it, aware this vivid vision is a memory from a life once mine.
The wooden house had collapsed into black ash and bone. Smoke curled into the sky like restless ghosts. I walked barefoot across scorched earth, still warm in places, until I reached what remained.
My heart—her heart—knew my parents were buried somewhere beneath the wreckage.
I remembered it clearly.
They had sent me to collect smooth, beaded rocks by the shallow river. I came home proud, with pockets full.
And then I saw the smoke.
I moved forward—six years old—hands blackened with soot, eyes wide and afraid. I reached out.
Before I could touch anything, someone pulled me back.
"Don't look," he said, voice calm and strong. A hand covered my eyes.
His hand—slim, cool.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, wrapping me against him. My body folded into his shoulder.
He whispered something I didn't understand. A foreign chant.
Then behind us, the fire surged higher. The last of the house turned to dust.
He walked fast—almost gliding—through woods, over stones, across rivers. Time bent and blurred.
We stopped in a hidden clearing: tall stones, thick forest, a sacred circle unseen by the outside world.
He set me down.
From that day on, I called him Father.
He never asked what happened. I never asked how he found me.
Somehow, heart spoke to heart.
But I always kept those smooth, beaded rocks close—clenched in my palm as I drifted off to sleep, listening to the night sounds of the forest.
They reminded me of something gentle—something safe—before the fire took everything.
We lived in a stone house deep within the woods.
A spring ran nearby. Trees rose like ancient guardians.
When I climbed the tallest one, I could see the faraway mountains.
That house became my whole world. It was quiet. And I felt protected.
Days followed a rhythm—fetching water, gathering herbs, tending to the small fire.
I'd sit by the pond and watch dragonflies skim across the surface.
Sometimes I imagined they were messengers from another realm.
When I turned seven, the visions began.
They came uninvited at first—small flashes of what would happen next.
My foster father noticed. He didn't panic.
He simply began to teach me. Not with fear, but with the Four Elements.
He was a Druid Priest.
He taught me reverence for nature. A sacred respect for the Earth.
And later—when I was ready—he taught me about the interconnectedness of all things.
"Stay grounded," he said, "or the spirits will tear you apart."
So I learned: Earth. Water. Fire. Air.
Not just elements—but forces. Beings. Spirits.
I asked Earth and Water to help me grow flowers—I loved flowers.
I asked the Wind to whisper to the birds, to bring me new seeds.
Sometimes, they did.
A strange bloom would appear days later—one I had never seen before.
I began to understand that silence was a kind of language.
Father once told me,"The world spoke in patterns"
He showed me the rustle of leaves, the way water curved around stones.
There was meaning in all of it. I just had to listen.
Father made me stop speaking to anyone else.
I could speak only to him—and only inside the house.
Outside, not a word.
I grew used to silence.
I used signs and gestures. I had never been chatty anyway.
He made me wear a hooded cloak whenever I stepped outside. I didn't question it.
Until I turned ten.
That's when my red-gold hair turned white.
Like his.
He said it was the mark of a clairvoyant. The one who could see what other could not.
That I —at my age—had begun receiving visions too young.
Girls weren't supposed to, though he never said why.
Only that it made me precious. And dangerous.
And that someone might try to take me.
By then, I could see someone's future just by envisioning them—just by focusing on their name or their face.
And then their path would unfold behind my eyes.
That changed everything.
He began teaching me symbols. Sacred markings. Plants. Energies.
I learned how to listen without asking.
How to answer without speaking.
Sometimes, villagers came from the valley to seek Father's help.
I never saw them.
But I knew what they needed.
If someone was sick, I had already prepared the remedy before he asked.
I didn't need to speak to know.
And he never needed to ask.
Still, at night, I'd lie awake—wondering if I'd ever speak freely again.
I never asked Father why silence mattered so much.
Maybe he feared the world.
Or maybe he knew the world feared me.
But even in that silence—I never felt alone.
The wind spoke.
The fire crackled with secrets.
The water murmured old stories.
And the forest, in its quiet way, always answered back.
I exhale, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath.