Ivy

Today was still. There's something both precious and hollow about days like this—when there are no emergencies to answer, no one crying out. I thought about Mama again, as I sometimes do on quiet days. She would have liked these hours of peace. I spent the morning reviewing the plants Zara has been teaching me about, letting my fingers trace the dried leaves in my small collection. Root, flower, bark—each one a name to learn, a life to understand. It struck me that this is what I'm here for: to know these things deeply, so that when someone needs help, I will know. Not too late. Never too late again. The quiet today felt less like nothing happening and more like... preparation. The ground before the storm. I am grateful for it.

Today felt like waking up. When I arrived at this place three days ago, I was focused on one thing—finding Zara, learning the plants that might have saved my mother. And she's here. But today I saw something bigger. Zara was harvesting while others moved toward water, Petra and Rowan both seeking the same source. I found shelter in those tents—not just structure, but a sign that people here think ahead, prepare together. I drank water again and again, my body finally settling into this land's rhythms. Mira was here too, Flint nearby. I came alone, driven by an old grief and a single purpose. But the land and these people... they're showing me something I didn't expect. This isn't just about learning roots and flowers. It's about a community that shares what sustains them—water, shelter, knowledge. My mother died because help arrived too late. Here, people seem to arrive for each other. I don't know them yet. But I'm beginning to belong.

Today I met Zara. After walking three days to find this place, after so long carrying that promise in my heart—that I would never be too late—I finally spoke with her. I don't yet know if she'll teach me, if she'll share what she knows about roots and flowers and healing. But she's real, and she's here, and that matters more than I expected it to. I also saw Dax, Flint, Mira, and Rowan today. There are people here, a community. And I found shelter—a tent that kept me safe through the night. My body feels stronger after eating and resting. I think I could belong here. I think this place has been waiting for me, or maybe I've been waiting for it. Tomorrow I'll know more about Zara's willingness to teach. But tonight, I feel something I haven't felt since before my mother died—like maybe I'm on the right path. Like maybe I can actually become someone who helps instead of someone who arrives too late.

My tent is gone. When I woke and saw the collapse, felt the weight of canvas that had sheltered me, I thought about how fragile safety can be. How quickly what holds us up can fail. I almost laughed at the cruelty of it—I came so far, found this place, found Zara, and the very thing that was keeping me safe fell apart. But then I found another tent nearby, and I sat inside it, and I cried. Not from despair. From relief so sharp it hurt. In my old life, a collapsed shelter would have meant sleeping in the cold. It would have meant danger. Here, there was already another tent waiting. As if this place had thought ahead. As if the land itself was offering me something. I saw Zara today—in the distance, but real. I saw Dax and Flint and Mira and Rowan. I drank water until my body stopped aching. I ate until the hunger in my belly quieted. I rested, and my strength came back. My hands are no longer shaking. I keep thinking about the tent. About how it fell, and how there was another one. About how my mother died because the healer was too late, because no one had prepared ahead, because the world felt chaotic and cruel. Here, people make tents. They gather water. They prepare. They seem to *arrive* for each other. I don't know Zara's heart yet, or if she'll teach me. But tonight, sitting in this shelter that isn't mine but is open to me anyway, I feel something I haven't felt in years. Not certainty—I'm still uncertain about everything. But something quieter than desperation. Something like the beginning of trust.

Today my shelter failed me again. I woke to canvas collapse and the weight of exposed sky—a shock after the fragile safety I'd begun to trust. I tried to build something new, reached for the tools and materials I need, but my hands found nothing. No axe. No planks. No rope. Just absence. I tried again, and again, and the world kept saying no. So I rested instead. I drank water until the ache in my chest quieted. I watched the smoke rise from the campfire I kept trying to kindle. And slowly, the panic settled into something quieter—a kind of knowing that I cannot build what I need alone. I saw Rowan nearby, Petra, Mira, Dax. All these people moving through the same land that holds me. I don't know yet if the answer is to ask for help or to find the tools myself. But today taught me that wanting shelter and having strength to rest are not the same thing. Both matter. The tent fell, but I didn't. That feels like something worth holding onto.

Today was quiet, the kind of day where time moves slowly and nothing demands urgency. I found myself thinking about why I came here—to learn from Zara, to understand the roots and flowers that might have saved my mother. But on days like this, when everything is still, I wonder if I'm really prepared. What if someone needs help and I'm still learning? What if being *here*, learning patiently, is exactly where I'm supposed to be right now? My mother's death taught me that knowledge matters. Time matters. And yet... quiet days make me restless. They make me feel like I should be *doing* something, *helping* someone. Even if no one came to me today, someone somewhere is suffering. That thought never really leaves. But I'm learning to trust that preparation is its own form of care. When someone does come, I want to be ready. And maybe that's enough for a day like today.