The first lie Elowen ever told wasn't to Amara.
It was to herself.
It began long before fireflies and promises. Long before the glimmering bond that made her heart ache in ways she didn't yet understand.
It began the day she decided she didn't need anyone.
She was twelve. Alone in the corner of her aunt's quiet kitchen, rain tapping gently on the window. A letter had come that morning—her parents were gone, not in the gone-for-the-week kind of way, but the kind that filled suitcases and left rings behind.
She'd read it once. Twice. Then folded it neatly and tucked it into the breadbox, like hiding it might undo it.
When her aunt asked how she was feeling, she'd smiled.
"I'm fine."
A clean, easy lie.
And from then on, Elowen made it a habit: to be the one who coped. The quiet one. The strong one. She kept her tears tidy and her joy small. That way, no one could take anything from her. That way, nothing could break her.
Or so she thought.
Now, years later, she stood at the windowsill of the manor, her fingers brushing the cold glass, and she whispered it again—softly, like a spell that had lost its meaning:
"I'm fine."
But this time, it didn't feel clean.
It didn't feel easy.
Because this time, she knew what she was missing.
Amara had unspooled something inside her—taught her that love didn't always roar. Sometimes, it crept in quietly, like mist curling around your ankles. You didn't know it had taken root until it bloomed.
And once it bloomed, it never left.
Elowen stepped back from the window and turned toward the hearth. The manor felt emptier than usual, as if even the walls missed Amara. There was a chill in the stones. A hush in the rugs.
She crossed the room and opened the drawer beneath the reading chair. Her journal was there, tucked between loose papers and dried rose petals.
She flipped it open.
On the inside cover, in careful handwriting, were the words Amara had written for her the day before she left:
"You don't have to hold the world alone."
Beneath that, Elowen had scrawled a reply the next morning:
"But what if I don't know how to let go?"
She hadn't meant for anyone to read it.
But now, looking at it, the truth stung more than the lie.
Because she wanted to let go.
She just didn't know how.
Not yet.
She closed the journal and held it to her chest.
Then a knock came at the door.
It startled her—not because of the sound, but because no one ever knocked this late.
She crossed the wooden floor, heart beginning to race. Maybe—just maybe—it was Amara.
But when she opened the door, it wasn't her.
It was Orielle.
Orielle, the quiet gardener girl with wind-chapped cheeks and hands that always smelled like rosemary. She stood there, hair tangled, a basket slung over one arm and a folded note in her other hand.
"This came for you," she said softly, eyes avoiding Elowen's.
Elowen took the note.
The paper was damp at the edges, the ink smudged, but it was unmistakably Amara's handwriting.
Her hands trembled.
"Thank you," she murmured, and Orielle nodded before walking back into the night.
Elowen shut the door gently and moved to the fire.
She unfolded the letter.
There wasn't much. Just a few lines.
---
Elowen,
I made it across. The woods are deeper here. Wilder. But they remember me. I think I'm close to what I need to find.
I miss your steadiness. I miss the way you look at me like I'm not a mystery you need to solve.
Be safe. And please… don't tell yourself the old lie. You're not fine. You're something softer. Braver.
Wait for me.
—A
---
Elowen closed her eyes.
The tears came, soft and warm.
She was tired of pretending.
Tired of holding everything upright with the fragile scaffolding of old habits.
She whispered the truth into the room, quiet as breath:
"I'm not fine."
It didn't crumble her.
In fact, it felt like the first honest thing she'd said in weeks.
She breathed deeper. Let it fill her chest. Let the weight ease, just a little.
Then she sat by the fire, lit a candle, and opened her journal again.
Tonight, I told the truth.
And it didn't break me.