Lady Nifle

Lady Nifle leaves a quiet first impression, gentle, poised, and seemingly untouched by even the deepest stirrings of emotion.

According to the ancient legends of the Charon, the souls of the departed are destined to return to the Misty Sea. To honour this belief, the Charon have long observed the tradition of water burials.

When night falls and the moonlight glimmers on the surface of the water, the bones or cherished keepsakes of the dead are placed upon small boats. Then, the Ferrywoman begins the Dance of Departure, a solemn rite said to guide the wandering souls back home, towards the Misty Sea.

Over her long, quiet years, Lady Nifle had crossed the continent of Atlasia time and again. Her footsteps had reached farther than any adventurer sung of in tales.

Whispers of the departed filled her ears, rage, resentment, sorrow, regret... All of it swirled like a dense fog, veiling the sun in shadow. And yet, each time, the voices quieted at the hush of her song, with each dancing step she took, dissolving into the trailing folds of her gown.

Deep within the Slumbering Woods, many souls still wandered. The ritual had taken longer than usual. When Nifle finally came to a stop, a breeze stirred her veil. It had been months since the battle. The scent of blood had long since faded, now, only the earthy breath of leaf and soil filled her lungs. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the wind, allowing herself to feel the land once more.

"Each land has its own breath." It was a line she had once read. Now, standing once again on this soil after decades away, she finally understood what it meant. In that peaceful moment, wrapped in the fragrance of memory, her thoughts wandered to a time long past, quiet walks through the woods, always a few steps behind that bright figure, laughter light and silver as windchimes.

A rustle of footsteps stirred the stillness. She opened her eyes. Among the trees, a flicker of colour. A girl stood before her, cradling a bundle of wildflowers. For a heartbeat, the figure seemed to blur, overlapping with someone long lost to memory. Her face carried a resemblance Nifle hadn't seen in years. And for a moment, she thought she heard the girl call her name, soft, joyful, like a voice drifting through a dream.

Then the vision passed. The girl blinked, curious. "Hello, ma'am," she said politely. "I don't think I've seen you around before. Are you from far away?"

Her voice rippled through Nifle's thoughts like a pebble cast into still water, drawing her gently back to the present. Nifle smiled gently. "Yes, my child. From a very long way away."

"But... you sounded like someone from around here."

"When I said 'a very long way,'" Nifle raised a hand and gestured to the horizon, "I did not mean distance."

The girl tilted her head, puzzled, but her gaze soon drifted to the lantern in Nifle's hand, its pale glow pulsing like breath.

"Are you a Ferrywoman?" she asked. "Did you come for... the departed?"

Nifle nodded. "I've just guided the wandering souls of this forest to the Misty Sea."

The girl lowered her gaze, and a note of sorrow crept into her voice. "...They were my people," she murmured. "The people of Aethyrie could not kneel to Hyperborea's rule. Nor return to the gods who turned their backs on us. So we stood, shoulder to shoulder, and fought for freedom and dignity, with nothing but our flesh and blood. Some called it foolish, reckless, pointless. But I don't believe that. Do you, ma'am? If we lost the war... does that mean their sacrifice meant nothing?"

"All lives must end," Nifle said softly. "But thoughts endure. The fallen lie like monuments left incomplete, someday, freedom will come to carve their names where they belong."

She paused, as if remembering someone.

"Those were the words of an old friend. I hope they bring you some comfort."

"Your friend must have been very brave," the girl said with a smile. "Thank you, for guiding them home. Now they can finally rest in peace."

She bent to place the wildflowers at the roots of an old tree. After a quiet moment, she rose and turned to leave, but paused, glancing back.

"My grandmother once told me a story about a Ferrywoman in a black veil, carrying a lantern... gentle as the night itself. You remind me of her."

You remind me of your grandmother, too, Nifle thought. But she kept the words to herself.

Instead, she offered a soft smile and bowed her head.

"It's time I moved on. May Mother Embla bless you, my child."

When guiding souls to where they belong, Nifle seeks quiet places, where no footsteps fall to disturb the rite. But you were among the rare few who witnessed her then, as she bade farewell to the departed. Her voice, low and tender, seemed to carry compassion for lives lost, a lament for fate's cruelty, a wistful sigh for time slipping away. And yet, perhaps it spoke none of these. Perhaps it was nothing more than a breeze, drifting gently across the land.

At the heart of Aethyrie, the Free State, atop the towering canopy of Arcadia Academy's great tree, stands a gravestone bathed in the light of dawn. It marks the resting place of Lady Aletheia, the Academy's founder. Once every ten years, on the anniversary of her birth, a remembrance ceremony is held in her honour. Lady Aletheia was more than a teacher, she was a leader and a visionary. Through wisdom and resolve, she steered the Free State time and again along the knife's edge between the Empire and the Church, preserving its neutrality amidst an age of turmoil.

Among the gathering of mourners, there is sometimes one figure who stands apart, a woman veiled in black. Unlike the others, she brings no flowers, speaks no words. She simply stands at a distance, silent, her gaze fixed upon the name etched into stone.

Years pass. Generations come and go. The mourners change. But the veiled woman remains. Unaged. As if time itself has forgotten her.

Nifle does not age. She does not die. No wound, no matter how grave, leaves a lasting mark.

There was a time she thought this gift a blessing. And a time she saw it as a curse. But in time, she came to understand: the power itself bore no judgment. Meaning was something she gave it, shaped by circumstance, tempered by time. Now, she no longer troubles herself with such thoughts. She simply watches in silence, as the world shifts and fades around her, accepting whatever eternity chooses to place in her hands.

"Who is that Ferrywoman?"

"She's Lady Aletheia's mother."

"What...? But she looks so young."

"That's because she bears the magic of longevity. She never ages."

"Wait, that's real? That's... incredible. Must be nice."

"But... to outlive your own child, to say goodbye with your own hands... that must hurt more than anything."

Though the whispers were hushed, they still reached Nifle's ears, carried on the evening breeze. Yet the words stirred nothing in her. She had long grown used to the awe, the envy, the wonder, and the quiet sighs that followed wherever she walked.

"It's time," said the young attendant beside her. "The rite is ready."

Nifle gave a slight nod. She lifted her lantern and stepped towards the river, where the water glowed faintly beneath the night sky. Moored at the bank was a slender boat, and resting upon it, a delicately carved coffin.

The woman within lay surrounded by blossoms, her eyes peacefully closed, as if merely dozing in a sunlit chair. The years had carved themselves into her: fine lines by her eyes and lips, skin dulled and weathered, strands of grey falling soft beside her temples. To any other, she was a woman well into her twilight years. But to Nifle, she was still a child. Through that aged face, she could still see all her past selves, the bright-eyed little girl with laughter full of wonder, the quiet student lost in the lamp-lit hush of the library, the slender figure crossing battle lines for her nation's survival, the silver-haired scholar who stood at the lectern, her eyes softened by time, yet shining still.

Nifle had expected deep grief, the kind she had once felt when guiding old friends to the other shore. But in this moment, what rose within her was something quieter: a strange sense of calm and release.

One by one, she lit the candles arranged around the coffin. Then, from the folds of her robe, she drew a small stone, its surface ridged and grooved with cracks, and placed it gently upon the woman's chest.

It was a fragment of a meteor, and the fulfilment of a promise long kept. That day, Nifle had planned a rare visit to the market, and asked if her child wanted anything. The girl, truly just a little one then, had lit up, eyes sparkling as she clutched at Nifle's sleeve. "A talking star," she'd said.

Of course, no market could offer up a star, let alone one that spoke. The child had always been full of whimsical, impossible ideas. But Nifle had promised she would find one, someday.

Children forget the promises made to them when they are very young. But Nifle never forgot the one she made to her daughter.

"I've brought you your talking star, Aletha," she whispered.

Nifle had once read Aletheia's journals. As a child, Aletheia held fast to her own odd beliefs. She didn't believe the priests of Elysium, who said the stars were gemstones set into a vast glass dome, arching over the world, and known to all as "the sky." Nor did she accept the tales of the Charon, who claimed the stars were golden leaves hanging from the limbs of a great world tree. She believed that each distant star was its own world, like Atlasia itself. And perhaps, to those stars, Atlasia was also just a "star" a single speck of light, twinkling back across the void.

If that were true, then this meteor shard, lined with ancient veins, might still whisper of a distant world, across time and space.

Nifle looked down, one last time, at the elderly woman who had once been her child. Then, gently, she closed the coffin. With steady hands, she pushed the boat into the river, letting the current carry it away. She rose, and with the same grace etched into every motion, began the Dance of Departure.

Behind her, soft sobbing stirred the air. In the edge of her gaze, the crowd stood still upon the riverbank, their eyes fixed on the drifting boat in silent reverence. Candlelight shimmered in their eyes, a scattering of stars upon the earth.

And in that moment, Nifle understood: The child had stopped asking for stars, not because she had forgotten, but because she had become one. A quiet light above Aethyrie's sky, eternal and unwavering, illuminating the path ahead.

Whenever Lady Nifle speaks with you, her voice always carries motherly warmth and patience.

And when your thoughts are troubled, she simply offers a quiet smile, watching you with eyes softened by time. Somehow, without a word, the unease in your heart always begins to ease.

Sacred Tower Era, Year 998, known also as Year One of the New Era, stands as a boundary no historian dares overlook. Some scholars divide the continent's past into two distinct eras: Before 998, and After 998. For it was in that year that the disillusioned cast aside the gods. They tore down the icons they once revered, raised blades in defiance, and abandoned the lands they had long called home. Marching northward into hardship and uncertainty, they began what would come to be known as the Great Migration, an event forever bound to the name Erika.

Daughter of Lord Generous, Erika could have lived a life of comfort and privilege. Instead, she chose to fight, for freedom, for equality, even if it meant standing against her own blood. Records describe her as valiant and passionate, a warrior who led from the front, spear in hand; her unshakable back a banner for others to follow.

As for Erika's closest companion, the chronicles mention only one name: Alexis, the sage who would one day found the Free State of Aethyrie. Yet in stories passed down by those who walked the Great Migration themselves, there is always mention of another, a young woman, rarely seen apart from Erika. The two were like sisters, inseparable in both step and spirit. Yet their temperaments could not have been more different: Erika shone with the brilliance of the noonday sun, while the other girl was quiet, reserved, a gentle soul, more akin to the aurora that softly graces the polar night.

At farewell rites, Nifle performs the Dance of Departure, a rite known only to the Ferrywomen.

It was a dance her mother once refused to teach her.

"This dance," she had said, "is meant for those who never return."

And so it was only many years later, when Nifle stood beside a quiet river in her homeland, moonlight pale above her, that the memory of the dance stirred. That night, bidding farewell to her dearest friend, she rose to her toes and moved as she remembered her mother once had.

In that moment, she finally understood why her mother never taught her the dance. But by then, there was no one left to hear.

"Have a sip too, sweetheart." The older woman walking beside Nifle offered her a waterskin with a kind smile.

"Thank you." Nifle accepted it and took a sip, then immediately doubled over, coughing hard as the burn hit her throat.

"Haha, should've warned you, that's wine." The woman chuckled. "Cold weather like this, a few sips can warm you right up. But if you're not used to the taste, maybe don't overdo it. Wouldn't want you dizzy later."

Nifle gave an awkward smile and handed the waterskin back. The woman patted her lightly on the shoulder, then turned to check in on the others.

Among the migrants, aside from Erika and Alexis, no one knew that the quiet, delicate girl walking among them was the "blessed girl" once worshipped upon the altar. For the first time in her life, Nifle found herself living as an ordinary person, with friends, with companions.

Their journey began beneath the shadow of the Sacred Tower, passed through the Emerald Forest, and continued ever northward. Here, the trees shed their yellowed leaves at the first bite of cold. The north was nothing like the sun-blessed southern lands, those long favoured by the gods. And yet, even here, Nifle felt something within her begin to thaw. Her dearest wish now was to fulfil the promise she had made to Erika: to find a place where they could live freely, and build a new home.

But that wish was too much to ask of the times. The knights of Elysium gave relentless chase, outnumbering the migrants many times over and wielding weapons far more refined. Again and again, they launched assaults. And each time Erika returned from battle, her body bore new wounds.

"Let me go in your place," Nifle said. "I can't be hurt."

But Erika only smiled and shook her head.

"I have to go," she said. "No one else can take my place."

Erika's final battle was fought not against kings or gods, but against her own father. On that day, Lord Generous himself led the charge, declaring a crusade against his daughter in the name of purging heresy. The tragic clash between father and daughter ended with both falling upon the field. At the very moment his sacred bow, Mammon, sent an arrow through her chest, Erika's lance found his heart.

When Nifle found Erika amid the wreckage, the warrior was already fading, her breath shallow, life slipping away. In desperation, Nifle reached for her dagger, ready to slice open her own wrist. The blood in her veins, the so-called "golden blood" had once repelled death itself. But Erika, though barely conscious, raised a trembling hand to stop her.

"This wound is fatal," she whispered, voice faint but firm. "Even if you kept me alive... I would never truly recover."

"I can keep you alive forever!" Nifle cried.

But Erika only shook her head. "That wouldn't count as living. I want to die a warrior, here, on the battlefield. I'm sorry... but I won't be able to go with you... to that land of freedom we dreamed of."

"Why...?" Nifle bowed her head, tears spilling freely as she trembled from head to toe. "This blood in my veins, it's meant to save lives, isn't it? So why can't I save you? If I can't even save you... then what's the point of my life?"

"Nifle..." Erika reached out, gently cupping her friend's tear-streaked cheek with a calloused hand hardened by years on the battlefield. "That bastard of a father of mine... he might've been right about one thing. You really are a child blessed by the gods. Your life... must have a very special purpose. And I believe... you'll find it someday."

But Nifle didn't understand. Not then. All she could do was hold her friend's body, already growing cold, and let the tears fall, unrestrained.

After Erika's passing, the migrants continued northward. Their journey stretched on, long enough to shake off the knights of Elysium, and longer still, until at last, they were free. But in the end, arms that once embraced drew blades against one another, and wine once shared spilt into blood-soaked soil. The road to freedom was lined with thorns and littered with broken oaths. Nifle witnessed more sorrow, more partings. But she also began to understand: Though life was full of uncertainty, and death inevitable, the brave still had the right to choose, what to live for, and what to die for. Death held no meaning... until they gave it one. That was the privilege of mortals.

But that privilege eluded Nifle. She could not choose death. She could only live, and keep living, as everything she loved faded, one by one, before her eyes.

Lady Nifle does not anger, but she makes space for yours to rest.

"Anger is the heat of the living," she once said. "It means your flame still burns. Mine... has long since gone cold."

In the long annals of Elysium, a former bearer of the Lord Generous title once consecrated a miraculous young girl, proclaiming her the chosen of the God of Life. It was said that golden blood flowed through her veins, potent enough to cure all afflictions. She was sent to walk among mortals, and to shed her blood, spreading divine grace across the land, to spare the people from sickness and age.

But, This blessing came at a price. Her blood was drawn into crystal vials and sold for staggering sums. To the nobles, it was a symbol of wealth; to the common folk, a final hope that often drove them to ruin.

Yet the blessing was never eternal. Her blood could only stave off death for a time, it could not truly heal. Even so, the people flocked to the sanctum, gold and silver clutched in hand, begging for a few more borrowed moments of the fading miracle.

Before the fevered prayers, the breathless gratitude, the adoration that bordered on madness, the girl remained ever silent. Seated upon the high altar, she spoke not a word.

No one knew that beneath the veil of pure white lay a pale and beautiful face, stilled not by grace, but by long years of captivity. Her lips, untouched by speech, had been silenced not by choice, but by solitude.

No one knew that beneath her embroidered robe was a body flawless in form, yet riddled with wounds unseen, and a heart so worn by suffering it had long since forgotten how to beat.

Though Nifle's blood carries the power to prolong another's life, in all her long years, she has invoked a true miracle only once.

It was for a child born along the path of the Great Migration. The company she travelled with had been swallowed whole by a swamp, and when they were finally found, only a single infant remained, held high above the mire by the trembling arms of those already buried beneath. That child, against all odds, survived the wars and the wandering years, and finally reached a time of peace, only to fall to plague.

The physicians were helpless. But Nifle refused to let go. On the night the child hovered between life and death, she opened her own veins again and again, offering her blood in place of the girl's, slipping into unconsciousness more than once from the loss. And perhaps, if the gods truly do exist, they were moved by her desperation. For by dawn, the child's fever had vanished, her wounds had miraculously closed, and horns, like Nifle's, had begun to grow.

Nifle raised her as her own, hoping they might share the long years ahead. But the child aged, as all mortals do. And in time, she no longer looked like Nifle's daughter, but her sister, her mother, her grandmother.

And Nifle came to understand: the miracles she could bring into the world were finite. The road to immortality is a narrow one. The gods had granted her passage. But they had not granted her company.

She felt as though she were caught in a cycle that never ended.

Every morning, at the same hour, Lord Generous' maids would open the door to her chamber, unfasten the chains at her wrists and ankles, and draw a white veil over her face. She would walk, step by step, towards the sanctum throne, bathed in reverent gazes, her feet treading soft petals scattered in her path, just as a true Divine Herald was meant to do.

Then Lord Generous himself would step forward, presenting a chest of glass phials, clear, flawless, and empty. And the rite of blessing would begin.

She was the chosen of the gods. And as such, she was expected to transcend mortal pain. That was why the blood had to be drawn in the oldest way, no fine needles, no herbs to dull the pain. Such things would profane the rite, reduce it to something clinical, something cruel.

The blade must be beautiful. Silver, gilded, engraved with the crest of the golden iris. Cold as the sanctum's stone, sharp enough to part flesh with the gentlest touch. Blood, deep and red, would slide into the phial. And with it came that sickly-sweet metallic scent. It was anything but divine, yet the heavy incense of the sanctum would quickly drown the scent out.

One phial would fill. Then another. And another. Until the grateful praises of the faithful blurred into a far-off murmur, and the blade slipped from her grasp.

The gates of the sanctum would close with a thunderous boom, sealing out the desperate eyes beyond. She, now little more than a hollowed vessel, would be carried back to her chamber by the maids, the veil lifted from her face. Then came hours of stillness. Eyes wide open, she could only watch as the wounds on her arm slowly closed, as pale skin flushed faintly with life once more, as the cracks on her fingers knit together with impossible precision.

And so, she was made whole again, no different from the day before, or the one before that. Waiting to be veiled once more. Waiting for the next chest of gleaming, empty phials. Waiting.

That day, footsteps came outside her chamber door earlier than usual. It wasn't uncommon. Whenever important guests visited, Lord Generous would instruct the maids to prepare an extra supply of "golden blood."

But this time, there was only one set of footsteps, and a voice she'd never heard before. Bright, unfamiliar, full of life. It spoke softly from beyond the curtain.

"Hello? Um... are you the Divine Herald?"

She sat up at the sound, but gave no reply.

"Hey! You're awake!" The voice brightened. "I'm Erika. My father said I'm not supposed to come in here, but... well, I thought you must be bored. I mean, being stuck in this room all the time? That sounds awful. Don't you want to go outside? Just for a little while? It's still early, no one will notice."

She opened her mouth, trying to respond, but the long-silent cords had forgotten how to make sound.

"Hmm? Is this not a good time?" The voice hesitated for a moment. then brightened again. "That's fine! I'll come back another day then!"

No. Don't leave.

Dragging her weakened body forward, the chains that bound her limbs scraped against the bedframe, grinding out a jarring, metallic screech. Her throat trembled with effort. A sound broke free, rough, hoarse, barely human.

"Hel..."

"Miss Herald...? Did you say something?"

"He... help... me..." She forced the words out, one broken breath at a time.

"Hmm?"

There was a pause. Then the curtain flew open. And she came in, bringing sunlight, wind, and the scent of a world still full of life.

Later, Nifle learned that Erika was the daughter of Lord Generous himself. After uncovering the truth behind the so-called "golden blood," Erika began visiting her in secret at dawn. She would bring food, teach her to speak, and share stories of the world beyond those locked doors.

"Miss Herald, no, Nifle. I'll get you out of here. I promise." She said it one day, her eyes meeting Nifle's without hesitation, her voice steady and sincere. Nifle had thought it no more than a kind lie, a moment's warmth, meant to ease her pain. But Erika kept her promise.

On the day of their escape, Erika unshackled Nifle's chains and lifted her onto her back. Though they were the same age, Nifle's body was so light, so fragile, she weighed no more than a child.

"You're light as a feather..." Erika murmured. "When we reach the north, I'll make sure you eat well. You'll grow stronger. We'll ride horses together. We'll learn to shoot arrows together."

"Okay," Nifle whispered, and nodded, a faint smile curling her lips.

Many years later, whenever Nifle found herself leafing through the history books of Atlasia, her mind would return to the night she fled the sanctum of Lord Generous. She had ridden on Erika's horse, arms wrapped tightly around her rescuer's waist. Unlike Nifle's paper-thin skin, Erika's waist, firm from years of training, felt solid and sure. It made Nifle feel safe.

They galloped through the night, the wind roaring in her ears, the city fading behind them. The horse finally came to a stop at a camp, where Nifle met Erika's comrades for the first time. She looked at the faces gathered around the fire, faces marked by warriors' bold laughter, by farmers' sun-etched furrows, by scholars' brows drawn deep in thought, and bards' lips cracked by years of song. The firelight danced in their eyes. To Nifle, they were nothing like the faces she had seen from high above the altar.

Their eyes burned just as brightly, but not with desperate prayers begging for divine mercy. No, the fire in their eyes spoke of longing. A longing not to be saved, but to build a new homeland with their own hands and feet planted firmly in the earth.

Together with Erika's companions, Nifle became part of a far greater escape, one that later generations would remember as the Great Migration. A chapter of history so profound, no retelling could ever truly capture its weight. It was a movement born of defiance. The people of Elysium's lower castes, no longer willing to kneel beneath the yoke of theocracy, placed their faith in a wise leader and marched north, into the uncharted wilds, in search of something they could finally call their own.

And for Nifle, it was the same. She had escaped the sanctum and stepped into life, not as a symbol, nor a vessel, but as herself.

The only time you ever saw the stillness in her eyes slightly shift was when she spoke of a place called the Emerald Forest. But even that was no more than a ripple, so brief it might have been imagined.

A thousand years ago, deep within the border forests of Elysium, there lived a couple. The wife was a Ferrywoman, one who guided the souls of the departed through a sacred rite of water burial. This ritual, rooted in the ancient traditions of the Charon people, stood in defiance of the doctrines upheld by Elysium's Orthodox Church. And so, it was strictly forbidden. Only through whispered conversations between trusted friends could one learn of the Ferrymen, and where to find her.

At first, it was only those few Charons who still clung to the old ways that dared make the journey, on foot, through the forest, to ask the Ferrywoman to send off a lost loved one. But as resentment towards the patricians of the Church deepened, this quiet funeral rite became something more: a silent act of rebellion. One by one, more souls chose to leave this world in the arms of the Misty Sea, rather than in the sanctified embrace of the Church.

Eventually, the whispers reached the ears of the Church's informants. And on a moonless night, the executioners came, torches in hand, and stormed the forest. The two heretics were dragged from their home and burned at the stake. Their remains were cast beyond the border, into a pauper's grave, a place where no stone marked the dead, lest they defile the sacred soil of Elysium.

And thus ended the legend of the Ferrywoman. But for a time after, another tale made its way through the whispers of the common folk. They said that on the morning after the execution, someone saw a child crawl out from that grave. Her chest bore a wound clean through the body. Her small form was drenched in blood and ash. Her face, blackened with soot. And yet her eyes, clear, sharp, and unmistakably alive, were not the eyes of someone at death's door.

They say dreams are shaped by the desires buried deep within one's mind. Perhaps that is why Nifle rarely dreams, there is nothing left in this world that calls to her.

And yet, once in a while, she dreams of her parents. Their faces have long since faded with time, but she still remembers how it felt, to hold her father's calloused hand, to gaze into the soft, half-closed eyes of her mother. That feeling, she knows, was called "warmth."

Deep in the forest, a young girl awoke beneath the dappled sunlight. Two bright red berries dangled before her eyes, gently swaying. A drop of dew slid down their plump skin and fell.

"Wha...!?" The girl jolted fully awake and scrambled up from the grass. "Has the hunt started already?"

Her father chuckled, holding the berries between his fingers. "You begged to come along first thing this morning, and then fell asleep on my back halfway through. Hunt's over, sweetheart. Time to head home."

"Aww, I missed it all!" she pouted, cheeks puffed out. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Alright, alright, next time, I promise," he said, giving the berries a little shake. "Here. These are sweet. Try one, might cheer you up."

Still sceptical, the girl took one and popped it into her mouth. A hint of tartness mingled with the sweetness as the juice spread across her tongue, and the gloom lifted from her face.

"What are these berries called?" she asked.

"Those are raspberries. Forest's full of wild fruits, but only a few you can eat. And raspberries? Sweetest of the lot."

The girl snatched another handful from his palm and tugged at his hand, ready to head home.

"Daddy, I want more..."

"Alright, two more, okay, three. But the rest's for your mum, okay?"

"Why are raspberries so small? Wouldn't it be better if they were bigger?"

"Well, you just have to wait till it grows up. First it turns into a gooseberry, then into an apple. And if that apple keeps growing... bam, melon."

"Wow... then what will I become when I grow up?"

Her father chuckled, gave her hair a gentle ruffle, but said nothing.

At the end of the path, a small wooden house came into view. That was the girl's home. Her mother stood at the door, waving at them from afar. With a joyful squeal, the girl let go of her father's hand and ran towards her mother's open arms.

"Goodness, look at you," her mother said, catching her and wiping the juice from her mouth. "You didn't sneak something into your tummy in the woods, did you?"

"She didn't, I can vouch for her," her father said, chuckling as he walked up behind them. He pulled out a bundle of raspberries wrapped in a handkerchief and handed them to his wife. "We brought some back for you too."

"Wow... they're so pretty, I almost feel bad eating them," she said with a smile.

Laughing and chatting, the man and the woman walked off towards the kitchen to start preparing lunch.

Meanwhile, the girl slipped away again, wandering down to a nearby brook. As she murmured the list of fruits her father had told her, raspberries, gooseberries, apples, and melons, mounds of them rose in her mind like tiny hills, one after another.

Then suddenly..."Whoa...!"

The girl froze, eyes wide. Just within reach, a dragonfly spiralled down from the air and settled lightly on the tip of a tightly closed water lily bud. Its delicate wings caught the sunlight, scattering it into a shimmer of iridescent colour.

She held her breath, perfectly still, afraid that even the faintest motion might send the tiny, beautiful creature fluttering away.

Back then, she longed to grow up. Everything was new in her eyes, and the world before her, vast, unknown, was filled with wonder.

Back then, she didn't yet know she would one day witness every bloom and every withering, every meeting and every parting, every beginning, and every end.

Back then, she was simply an ordinary child, watching a dragonfly perch on the tip of a water lily bud, her eyes bright with joy and wonder.