The morning Miriam leaves, the sky is pale and unassuming, as if nothing momentous is about to happen.
That feels like a lie.
She wakes before the house stirs, heart already racing, the warmth beneath her skin restless and sharp. Today is meant to be a beginning—quiet, controlled, supervised by prayer and expectation.
Instead, it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
Miriam dresses slowly, fingers lingering over the familiar weight of her clothes. Plain fabric. Long sleeves. Modest lines meant to disappear into usefulness. She braids her hair carefully, the ritual grounding, each pass of her fingers a reminder of who she has been.
Who she is supposed to be.
Downstairs, Ma presses a small bundle into her hands—bread wrapped in cloth, a jar of preserves. "For the day," she says, voice warm and steady. As if Miriam is only going to the next field over, not stepping beyond everything she's ever known.
"Be careful," Ma adds. "Remember yourself."
Miriam nods. She knows better than to promise.
Pa drives the buggy as far as the boundary fence, the horse's pace slow and steady. Neither of them speaks much. The silence is familiar, heavy with unasked questions.
When they stop, Miriam's chest tightens.
The fence is nothing special. Weathered wood. A simple gate. She has seen it her entire life, passed it countless times without ever crossing through.
On the other side, the road stretches wide and unfamiliar.
Pa climbs down first. He adjusts the reins, then turns to her. "You know what's expected of you."
"Yes," Miriam says.
His gaze lingers on her face, searching. For what, she isn't sure. Reassurance, perhaps. Proof that she is unchanged.
"Faith is not tested where it is comfortable," he says finally. "But it must be chosen."
Miriam swallows and steps down from the buggy.
The moment her boots hit the ground, it happens.
The world sharpens.
Not all at once—but enough that she stumbles, her breath catching as sound and color rush in. The rustle of leaves seems louder. The scent of the road—dust, oil, something metallic—cuts through her like a blade.
And beneath it—
That other scent.
Faint. Elusive. Not here, but near.
Her pulse spikes, heat flaring low and insistent. Miriam grips the fence post to steady herself, fingers digging into the wood.
Pa notices. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," she says quickly, though the word feels unsteady on her tongue. "Just—nervous."
He nods, satisfied with the explanation. Nervous is allowed. Nervous can be prayed away.
He opens the gate.
The sound of it—wood creaking, metal shifting—lands in Miriam's chest like a bell.
"This is as far as I go," Pa says.
She knows that. Still, the finality of it sends a shiver through her.
Miriam steps forward.
Crossing the fence feels nothing like she expected. There is no thunder. No revelation. Just the solid press of the ground beneath her feet and the sudden, undeniable awareness that there is no one left to tell her what to do.
The gate closes behind her.
The road hums with possibility.
Miriam walks.
Each step carries her farther from the quiet certainty of home and deeper into a world that smells wrong and right all at once. She passes houses that look nothing like the ones she knows—painted wood, glass windows that catch the sun, voices drifting openly from inside.
So many voices.
So many scents.
Her senses strain, overwhelmed, and she has to stop more than once, breathing through the rush of it all. This place is loud in ways she doesn't have words for. Alive. Chaotic.
This is temptation, she tells herself. This is what they warned you about.
But beneath the fear, something else stirs.
Relief.
She doesn't realize how tightly she's been holding herself until the tension begins to ease, just slightly, as if the world here is shaped to accommodate her rather than contain her.
A car passes, close enough that she flinches, heart racing. The smell of it lingers—sharp and acrid—and for a moment she's sure she'll be sick.
Then another scent cuts through it.
Clean. Warm. Familiar in a way that makes no sense at all.
Miriam freezes.
Her body reacts instantly—heat pooling, breath hitching, every nerve alight. She turns slowly, scanning the street.
A group of people stands across the way, laughing, talking too loudly. They look ordinary enough. Jeans. Loose shirts. Hair worn freely.
And among them—
Her gaze snags.
She doesn't know why. She only knows that something inside her has gone still and sharp all at once, like an animal scenting water after a long thirst.
Their eyes meet.
The world tilts.
The scent deepens, unmistakable now, wrapping around her senses until her knees threaten to buckle. Miriam grips her bag, heart hammering as understanding flickers just out of reach.
This isn't temptation.
This is recognition.
She looks away first, pulse roaring in her ears.
What in God's name is happening to her?
Miriam forces herself to keep walking, even as every instinct screams at her to turn back—to go to them, though she has no idea who they are or why her body knows them at all.
The pull stretches, taut and insistent, then slowly eases as distance grows.
But it does not disappear.
By the time she reaches the bus stop—a place she has never stood before, surrounded by strangers and noise—her hands are trembling.
She sinks onto the bench and presses her palms against her thighs, grounding herself in the familiar pressure.
Obey. Endure. Be still.
The words feel thinner out here. Less convincing.
Miriam lifts her face to the open sky and exhales slowly.
Whatever this is—whatever is awakening inside her—it followed her beyond the fence.
And for the first time, she wonders if that was always the point.