The morning didn't bring the child. It brought only a stone.
Jake found it sitting on his threshold, a cold, grey weight marked with a jagged spiral. When he picked it up, a sharp vibration rattled his finger bones—not a gentle hum, but a demand. He waited for the child's familiar shadow to flicker against the trees, but the woods remained empty. For the first time, the silence felt less like a gift and more like a test he hadn't studied for.
He walked toward the clearing by instinct, his heart a frantic metronome against his ribs. Every snap of a twig under his boots sounded like a shout. By the time the child appeared near a wall of towering ferns, Jake was sweating despite the morning chill. She didn't smile. She only tapped her ear and then pointed at the ferns, her expression as unreadable as the stone in his pocket.
Inside the clearing, the air was thick. Seven figures sat in a ring, their stillness so absolute they looked carved from the earth. No ribbons. No glowing fruit. Just open palms resting on knees.
The child nudged him into a gap in the circle. Jake sat, but his knees wouldn't settle; they twitched with the urge to run. He looked at the woman to his left—silver threads woven into her hair—expecting a sign, a nod, anything. She didn't look back. She simply traced a slow, heavy arc in the air.
Jake watched, his mind racing to translate. Is it the sun? A bridge? A greeting? He waited for the internal click of understanding, but it didn't come. The woman pressed her hand to her heart, and the silence that followed felt like an interrogation.
The figure across from her responded—a sharp flick of the wrist, a circle drawn in the dirt.
Jake's stomach knotted. It wasn't a conversation he was watching; it was a weave, and he was the loose thread. When the eyes of the circle finally turned to him, the pressure in the clearing seemed to drop. His palms were slick. He thought of the failed salute from the week before, the burning shame of the broken rhythm.
He lifted his hand. It felt heavy, as if the air had turned to water. He tried to mimic the spiral on the stone, but his fingers were stiff. He drew a shape that was supposed to be an offering, but to his own eyes, it looked like a plea. He pressed his palm to his chest, but his heart was beating too fast, ruinous and loud in the quiet.
He waited for the hum of approval.
Silence.
A long, agonising minute passed where the only sound was the wind through the ferns. Jake felt the urge to scream—to just make one loud, honest noise to break the tension. But then, the woman with the silver hair leaned forward. She didn't hum. She didn't smile. She simply tilted her head, watching his trembling hand until it finally went still.
She reached out and traced a single line in the air toward him, then touched the ground.
It wasn't "approval." It was an acknowledgment. I see that you are struggling. The tension in Jake's chest didn't vanish, but it shifted. It became something he could breathe through. He realised then that they weren't waiting for a perfect performance; they were waiting for him to stop performing and simply be there.
When the group finally rose, the silver-haired woman placed a white ribbon in his hand. It wasn't translucent or glowing; it was coarse, like unspun wool. It felt real.
The child followed him back to the shelter but stayed ten paces behind, giving him the space he hadn't realised he needed. Jake sat on his mat and looked at the wall, at the rows of perfect vows written in shimmering ink.
He picked up the charcoal, but his hand stopped. The lesson wasn't a sentence today. It wasn't a "step forward." It was a dull ache in his throat and the realisation of how much he still didn't know.
He didn't write a vow. He put the charcoal down and watched the ink of his previous promises fade into the twilight, leaving the wall blank and waiting.