Theea
i have been trying to wander more
Wind tugs at my oversized jacket as I take the path leading into the Celestine. Scents of damp earth and crushed petals mingle on the morning air, and somewhere deeper in the gardens a caged bird trills an anxious note that echoes my own heartbeat. I tighten my grip on my backpack straps—its weight a reassuring knock between my shoulder blades—and knock once before ducking into the office.
Inside, sun‑shafts spear through window panes, turning dust motes into drifting embers. A woman I don’t know stands at a desk piled with ledgers, sleeves already pushed to her elbows, auburn hair catching the light like copper wire. Probably Lena, the one who put up the notices. Nearby, a broad‑shouldered man surveys cracked tiles and half‑toppled shelves, hands braced on narrow hips as if mapping repairs in his head. I’ve never seen either of them before, but there’s purpose in their posture—people who belong here.
I clear my throat, boots scuffing against the floor. “Hi—Theea.” I hook a thumb beneath one backpack strap. “Saw the notice and figured you could use another pair of hands. I brought tools, cloth, some spare nails—whatever helps. Just point me.”
Movement by the window draws me, and I spot Sohalia her expression stretched thin, eyes threaded with weariness the sun can’t wash away. I step close enough that only she will hear. “Hey, Soh. After this, if you need to breathe or talk—let me know, yeah?” Short, simple, a promise tucked into a few words. I don’t know what happened, but I know she’d been apart of the quest to cleanse this place.
Then I roll my sleeves to the elbow and wait for instructions, ready to dig in wherever the Celestine begs mending first.
Inside, sun‑shafts spear through window panes, turning dust motes into drifting embers. A woman I don’t know stands at a desk piled with ledgers, sleeves already pushed to her elbows, auburn hair catching the light like copper wire. Probably Lena, the one who put up the notices. Nearby, a broad‑shouldered man surveys cracked tiles and half‑toppled shelves, hands braced on narrow hips as if mapping repairs in his head. I’ve never seen either of them before, but there’s purpose in their posture—people who belong here.
I clear my throat, boots scuffing against the floor. “Hi—Theea.” I hook a thumb beneath one backpack strap. “Saw the notice and figured you could use another pair of hands. I brought tools, cloth, some spare nails—whatever helps. Just point me.”
Movement by the window draws me, and I spot Sohalia her expression stretched thin, eyes threaded with weariness the sun can’t wash away. I step close enough that only she will hear. “Hey, Soh. After this, if you need to breathe or talk—let me know, yeah?” Short, simple, a promise tucked into a few words. I don’t know what happened, but I know she’d been apart of the quest to cleanse this place.
Then I roll my sleeves to the elbow and wait for instructions, ready to dig in wherever the Celestine begs mending first.
i have been trying to breathe more, to love my lostness
