I met Vanora at the edge of the marsh, where the land forgets its own name. The air there was thick with rot and wildflowers, sweetness tangled with decay. She stood barefoot in the mud, unbothered by the leeches clinging to her ankles, staring at the sky as though it owed her something.
She did not look like a witch.
There were no sigils etched into her skin, no fire coiled in her palms. Only a woman wrapped in dark cloth, her back held unnaturally straight, as if bearing the memory of weight that was no longer there.
"Why do you keep looking up?" I asked.
She smiled, but it was the kind of smile one wears for the dead. "Old habits," she said.
Something in her voice made my spine tighten. People who have never flown do not watch the sky with longing. They glance at it. They pass beneath it. They do not ache.
The wind shifted. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw scars ripple beneath the fabric of her dress—two long, pale seams where something had once been torn away. I looked again. Nothing.
Vanora noticed my stare. Her eyes met mine, sharp and knowing.
"Curiosity is dangerous," she said gently. "It always wants more than it can survive."
I laughed, pretending I wasn't already caught. "Then why stay here?" I asked. "Why not leave this place?"
She turned back to the sky. A crow passed overhead, its wings slicing the air with cruel ease.
"Because," she said, almost to herself, "this is where I learned what love costs."
The marsh fell silent. Even the insects seemed to listen.
That was the moment I understood: whatever had happened to Vanora did not belong to the past. It lived in her still—quiet, patient, waiting for the wrong question.
And I knew, with a certainty that frightened me, that I would ask it.