I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
A few days had passed since I visited the Buddhist hell… and I would like to say my thoughts were split in two.
But no.
There were many more.
Too many.
I slowly raised my hand in front of me, watching as a small flower of fire was born between my fingers.
The petals burned softly, opening and closing as if they were breathing.
Buganvilia was happy with my progress.
She had noticed it from the very beginning.
For a weaver, mastering multiple spells wasn't something common. Unlike others, our magic wasn't based on strength… but on understanding.
Understanding.Feeling.Interpreting.
That's why spells were usually passed down from mother to daughter from a young age.
But in my case…
I was no longer a child.
And my way of seeing the world was different from my grandmother's.
That's why… I had to learn from scratch.
—Guilt… —I whispered.
The fire reacted.
The petals moved more intensely, as if the word had weight.
