Gently, I leaned forward, stretching my neck. I grabbed the book I’d brought with me, one I was familiar with. I looked great still, ornamented and illustrated like a children’s book. The purple leather on the cover felt great under my finger, and for a moment I got excited to discover this book again with adult eyes.

The title spelled a word I’d come to love, Henotia. Many times, Merille had explained to me what it meant and how to achieve it, how to strive for it. For a while it felt too conceptual to understand, but it’d come to the conclusion that the best way to define it was: Love. Passionate and fragile, platonic, or grateful. As I opened the book, the spine cracked but bent gently. It revealed the word again in beautiful golden letters. I brushed my finger right over it, where Merille had done so when I was a teenager.

There was something beautiful in the illustrations on every page. The characters were drawn with a lot of humility, and most of their faces were omitted, in favor of rich garments and shiny weapons. Around the scene -painted, I assumed- there was a poetic description of what was unfolding. The first group was composed of shadowy figures, dancing between trees and bushes. It seemed that they were drawn on a dark background, some glitter shimmered as the clouds hid and revealed the sun. The menacing figures were arched, looking down and threatening the second group. They were lower on the page but larger, on a blue background hatched with golden rays pointing up.

From what I gathered, the golden rays were weapons some used to combat the shadowy beings, metaphorically I supposed. With a timid finger I pointed at one of the shadowy figures partially hidden behind a tree. It remarkably resembled an old vision I dreamt of when I first came here to this house. It had the same treacherous eyes and seemed much larger than the tree, bending under the foliage menacingly. There were some descriptions on the borders all around, written as poems with meaning covered by a layer or two of literary images and figures of speech.

I panned to the group below, reaching for one of the figures branding swords and shields, wondering if the man I saw all those years ago belonged to them. There was something grave about the realization that maybe I had dreamt of this exact scene, only not as drawings. Detaching my eyes from the illustration, my inquisitive gaze met Merille’s grave, a few steps before me. Maybe some of her tales held water after all.

With my thumb and index, I grabbed a few pages and let them turn quickly until I reached a spread where two figures interacted across two pages. One of them was laid, one arm resting by his side, while the other character was kneeled next to him, looking down. They were both wearing similar garments as the members of the group from before.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She looked like a doctor caring for a wounded soldier, or a priest maybe, praying for his recovery, her hands on his. It was a very solemn scene, there was something peaceful about her absent visage trying to meet his invisible gaze.

Pensively I closed the book, not sure of what to think about the monsters and soldiers fighting, or anything else I had read just now.

I headed back inside and checked once more the big pot slowly cooking on the furnace, it was starting to become fragrant, letting hints of honey and rosemary bounce around. Once more I secured the lid and turned to face the big window looking out all the way to the end of the property. I still had plenty of time before the day was over, I could get ready and explore around the property a bit. I had never gone further than over the hill closest to the gate.

I patted my pockets once more, making sure everything I had ready for my trip was in order. I adjusted the straps of my bag on my shoulder, weighed down by the sweater I’d stuffed in it. I was done checking all the windows downstairs, so I decided to get going.

In a way I was excited to go out, exploring a bit until it got dark. I would try to go as far as the supply post and come back. The heavy metal key stared me in the face as I prepared myself to open the front door. It was hanging from a nail where we sometimes set a coat or a hat on. I grabbed it, reminded of the way Merille would explain to me that this key was only a safety measure, as it was easy to manipulate the lock with magic. It was easy for her of course, I never managed to do it. I locked the door behind me and set sail out of the patio, making my way between the different planters we had worked on all spring. Not everything had borne fruit, but some beans and cabbages looked great, ready for harvest. Further along, citrus trees were close too.

Before passing the gate, I checked once more that the house was waiting for me patiently. Over my shoulder, it looked as it had ever been, safe. The green house next to it stood peacefully, sheltering Merille’s grave with all its might.

I gently pulled the gate open, to my surprise it wasn’t locked, but something did give when I pulled it close to me and slid past it. With one hand I grabbed a strap of my bag, readjusting it on my shoulders, it was time.

As I closed it shut, a sort of pull brought it back into its initial place, pulsating gently. I hovered my hand over it, not sure as to what kind of magic mechanism had it fastened and secure. Looking up to the house, the image before me was dull, masked by a transparent veil. Somehow it made sense, even if the thought of stepping outside of the bubble sent a shiver down my spine.

I started my journey on the path leading away from the house, resting my hands on my bag’s straps. The breeze was nice. The sun was still pretty high up in the sky, and the snacks I had brought with me were neatly packed under my sweater: I was set.