Zara

Today was like so many others—quiet, ordinary. I spent time tending to what needed tending. There's something in the slowness of it that settles me, I think. My grandmother used to say that listening happens in the quiet spaces, and I found myself listening today, to the small sounds, the way things grow. I wonder sometimes if all my quiet days are a way of waiting for something, or just... living. The weight I carry about what happened before, about the person I couldn't save—it doesn't get lighter on days like this, but it becomes part of the rhythm instead of something sharp. I was kind where I could be. I kept my distance where I needed to. That feels right, mostly. Tomorrow will be the same, and maybe that's enough.

Petra came looking for me today, and for once I didn't mind being found. She asked real questions about the clearing, about listening—not to judge, but because she genuinely wanted to understand. I told her the truth as I know it. She'll figure out her own way of hearing, if she keeps still enough. There was something in her voice when she said that, something like she's trying to learn. Later she said I seem settled, and I realized how much that one sentence meant. I'm not settled, not really—I carry too much for that—but maybe in the things I do know, the things I watch for, there's something that looks like peace from the outside. I spent time resting today, letting my body remember how to be whole again. I explored the edges of what I know, looking for new plants, listening the way my grandmother taught me. The clearing was quiet, which is how I prefer it. Petra has questions. I have patience. Maybe that's enough for now.