The House of First Light was quiet, steeped in the scent of damp herbs and warm stone. Rain tapped gently against the reed walls, the rhythm soothing but distant. Inside, the hearth flickered low, casting soft shadows across the woven floor mats.
Charlisa arrived just past mid-morning, carrying a bundle of warm moss-root tea. She found Lyra seated on a cushion near the east window, her knees drawn to her chest, her face pale despite the heat.
Charlisa paused for a moment, watching her.
There was something tight in the young woman's posture—like a branch bent too long by the wind.
Lyra turned when she felt her presence. Her smile was small, almost apologetic.
"I didn't sleep," she said.
Charlisa sat beside her and poured the tea into two small clay cups. "That's alright. Sometimes, thoughts are louder at night."
Lyra took the cup, hands trembling slightly.
"They say I should be joyful," she began, her voice barely louder than the rain. "They say it's a blessing. But all I feel is… afraid. What if I'm not enough? What if I ruin something before it even begins?"
Charlisa inhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the cup seep into her fingers.
"I used to think that too," she admitted. "That fear would undo everything. That I had to be perfect to welcome a soul. But you know what I learned?"
Lyra looked up, uncertain.
Charlisa turned to her, eyes soft.
> "The thoughts you carry become the world your child will live in.
The womb is not just a body—it's a garden. What you plant there… matters."
Lyra's lips trembled. "But how do I stop being afraid?"
Charlisa reached out and gently placed her hand on Lyra's belly—not forceful, not symbolic. Just present.
"You don't. You listen to it. You honor it. Then you speak to it with something stronger. With hope. With kindness. With the same love you'd give to the child."
A tear slipped down Lyra's cheek. She didn't wipe it.
"I'm afraid of being like my mother," she whispered. "She was always harsh. Distant. I promised myself I'd be different, but sometimes… I still hear her voice in mine."
Charlisa felt her heart twist—not in judgment, but in recognition.
"Then speak your own voice louder," she said. "And know that the very fact you want to change means you already have. Your child will feel what you choose now."
Lyra closed her eyes, letting the words settle in the raw place inside her.
"I didn't think anyone would understand."
Charlisa smiled gently. "That's what I thought too. Until someone sat with me like this."
---
Later, Charlisa guided Lyra through a meditation ritual—not long, not elaborate. Just breath and silence and a soft chant beneath their tongues. Afterward, they shared their intentions aloud.
"I want to raise a child who feels safe to be curious," Lyra said, voice clearer now. "One who doesn't inherit my fear."
Charlisa nodded. "Then begin today. Speak to your body the way you would to your child. With patience. With wonder."
Together, they walked to the goddess tree, the ground wet and fragrant beneath their feet. Lyra laid a bundle of river moss wrapped in braided grass at the tree's base.
Charlisa stepped back, letting her stand alone.
And as the wind stirred the leaves overhead, Lyra lifted her chin.
> "I'm ready to try again.
Not just to become a mother.
But to become someone I would've needed as a child."
Charlisa's throat tightened.
She didn't speak.
She just walked beside her, shoulder brushing shoulder, both women holding the invisible weight of future hearts—not yet born, but already being shaped.