For thirty years, at the gentle foot of the Hibiscus mountain range, a small family of four lived in quiet harmony with the land. Their days were guided by soil and sun, their nights by firelight and whispered prayers. The mountains stood watch over them, ancient and patient, their peaks often crowned with mist—said by old folk to be the breath of sleeping spirits.
Tomorrow, Galatea—the eldest—would turn eighteen.
In the old stories, eighteen was not merely an age, but a crossing. A year when the veil between what was and what waited grew thin, when names written in fate began to stir. Few remembered those tales now. Fewer still believed them.
Gala did not know this. She only knew she welcomed tomorrow with a quiet gladness, the way she welcomed every morning—with open hands and a steady heart.
"Gala, dear?" her mother's voice called from the kitchen. "Would you fetch some water from the well?"
Galatea closed the book in her lap. For a fleeting moment, the page seemed warmer than it ought to be, the ink faintly shimmering before settling once more into stillness. She thought nothing of it and rose.
"Aye, Mum," she replied.
She hummed as she crossed the yard, a tune without a name—one she had never learned yet had always known. The wind followed her, rustling the hibiscus leaves in soft approval. When she reached the well, its stones felt cool and alive beneath her fingers.
As she drew the water up, the surface reflected not only her face, but a brief glimmer of pale light—like a star caught beneath the water. It vanished the moment she blinked.
Inside, the kitchen welcomed her with the scent of steeping tea. The clay pot gave off a faint, steady warmth, though the fire beneath it had dwindled. Her mother tended the hearth, unaware of Gala's return.
"Is the tea ready, Mum?" Gala asked.
Her mother startled. "Mercy, child—you move like a wisp," she said, pressing a hand to her chest.
Gala laughed, and for a heartbeat the flames leaned toward her, brightening before settling again.
To the townsfolk below the mountain, Galatea was spoken of in hushed admiration. Suitors had come even when she was scarcely twelve, though memory had blurred those days. Some elders whispered that she was touched—not cursed, not blessed, but noticed.
Her hair fell like spun moonlight to her waist, her skin pale as dawn before sunrise. Her eyes carried the blue of far skies, and her lips bore a crimson hue as though kissed by old magic. From her mother she inherited beauty; from her father, warmth and steadiness. Yet there was something else—something no one could quite name.
Among her family, she was simply Gala. Their light. Their calm.
"When will Father and Avin be home?" she asked as the table was set.
"Soon," her mother said. "Watch the tea, Gala. Warm tea eases weary bones." She gestured to the clay pot.
Gala sat by the hearth, the fire crackling softly. Somewhere beyond the walls, a bird called—a clear, ringing note traditionally heard only at dawn. It puzzled her, but the sound felt… right.
Then came the voice she knew best.
"We're home."
She rushed forward and embraced her father, his clothes heavy with sweat, Avin's no better. As she took their baskets, a strange thing happened: the ache in her father's shoulders eased, just slightly, as if unseen hands had lifted the weight.
Neither noticed.
Dinner was simple—bread, soup, tea—but the air felt fuller, as though the room itself listened.
"You seem brighter than usual today," her father remarked, watching her over his cup.
"I'm always bright," Gala said, smiling.
"Well," he said gently, "brighter still."
Avin ate in silence, unaware that the spoon in his hand no longer trembled from fatigue.
They lived with little, but the earth had always provided enough. The old stories said the land favored those with grateful hearts.
"I can't wait for tomorrow," Gala said suddenly.
The fire popped sharply.
Her parents stiffened. Asha's hand tightened around her cup; Euro's gaze flicked, briefly, toward the window—toward the mountain, where the mist had begun to glow faintly in the dying light.
"O–of course you can't," Asha said, forcing cheer.
Gala lifted her head, smiling, her eyes shining brighter than candleflame.
"I don't yet know what gift I shall give you tomorrow," she said softly, "but I promise—it will be a surprise you will never forget."
Beyond the walls, the wind climbed the mountain paths. Somewhere deep within the Hibiscus range, something ancient stirred—stretching, remembering.
And the world, at last, began to count the hours.