Asiola, now a woman, buried herself in books. One day, she found a worn volume about the flow of qi-an old practice from distant lands. She read more, intrigued, and it reminded her of a world-famous book she had once seen at her brother's house. Curious, she began to try the exercises. At first, she only played, but even this play became a quiet lesson.
She stood still, palms facing one another, moving slowly as if holding an invisible ball of energy. Warmth began to gather between her hands-soft and surprising. She would draw them apart until the warmth faded, then bring them close again to feel the subtle thread of connection. The invisible ball grew, and with it, something inside her shifted. Her body felt lighter. Stronger. Healthier. Some called this Tai Chi Chuan; some said it was ancient, others that it was newly named. None of that mattered. What mattered was what she felt-real, alive, rooted in something beyond words.
And yet, despite this spark, she worked and worked. She started a garden so large it took hours each day to tend. She brought life to the orchard, coaxing fruit from trees long thought barren. Each year, there was more food, more growth. She learned how to preserve it all and filled her cellar with color and care.
She gathered firewood from the woods, chopped it by hand, and warmed the home through winter. Mornings were spent in the garden, noon at the stove, afternoons cleaning or crafting things she needed but could not buy. She took small jobs when she could, though none lasted-no one knew her well enough to offer more.
Her husband warmed himself at his grandmother's, while she shivered under layers in the frozen house. The red flags were there, but she did not-or could not-see them. Spring was her favorite time, and summer too, when the earth blossomed and greens filled her plate. Evenings were spent hauling water up the hill, mosquito-bitten and muddy, her face still soft with smiles. Her innocence, her faith in goodness, carried her forward year after year.
But time passed, and her in-laws came often with sharp words. They said she was lazy, that she did nothing-never noticing her roughened hands, thick with calluses, swollen with work. Her husband's sister arrived dressed in the latest clothes, painted in powders and perfumes, spreading gossip until everyone looked at Asiola with doubt.
Did she deserve it?
She scrubbed mold from walls, laid tiles with her own two hands, painted the house fresh every two years. While her husband escaped into sunlight, she breathed in damp dust and felt ill for days after. Still, she tried to fix what was broken. She picked wild berries to sell. Foraged greens. Took her fruits to market while he stayed home, playing games. She returned to unpaid bills and paid them herself.
Eventually, he found work, but the mood darkened further. He came home bitter, his nights spent in distraction or company that drained him. Still, she worked her garden. Met his friends with quiet smiles. Laughed a little. Then returned to her world of soil, roots, and quiet strength.
When even love failed to warm her, she turned inward-and downward-into the soil, into the breath, into the mystery of life that pulsed beneath it all.
...weeks went on, she realized how much strength it took to keep going on her own. The unfinished house creaked with the wind, its walls bare and cold. Mice scurried between the floorboards, and sometimes she heard unfamiliar noises that made her hug her knees tighter under the thick blankets. But even in those long nights, when fear and loneliness crept in, a small fire burned in her chest-a quiet defiance, a refusal to give up.
She began waking earlier each day, tending to small tasks just to keep her mind occupied: sweeping the dust, organizing what little she had, and sometimes venturing outside to gather dry branches or pinecones to use for heat. She found a rhythm in the solitude. In the quiet, she returned to her breath. Her meditations deepened, and she began feeling something new-a pulse, like a gentle current, moving through her body. A warmth not from fire, but from within.
One morning, wrapped in two sweaters and socks with holes, she lit a candle and sat cross-legged on the cold floor. She closed her eyes, bringing her hands over her belly again. She focused on the pearl she once imagined in her younger days. This time, it glowed brighter. With each breath, she felt the power of survival fill her. This was her fire. It may not heat the room, but it kept her spirit alive.
When she visited the library again, the kind librarian-who had seen her over the years-handed her a book she hadn't asked for. "I thought of you," she said softly, sliding it across the desk. The title was about herbal healing and wild plants. Something clicked. She thanked her and carried it home like treasure.
Days passed, and she started learning about plants she had only seen in her walks. With her notebook and pencil, she began identifying herbs near the woods: yarrow, nettle, wild thyme, and plantain. Some she dried on a cloth near the small window, the rest she used to brew teas in an old pot she had found.
In the stillness, a quiet kind of power returned. Not the naive power of youth, or the rush of romance, but something older. Something rooted. Her body still ached, her breath still fogged the window, but something in her had shifted. The girl was growing into herself-slowly, painfully-but deeply.
She still missed warmth. She missed ease. She missed the idea of being held without having to fight for it. But in that small, half-built house, with her herbs, her breath, and her stubborn fire, she had begun to understand something important: she was not just surviving anymore.
She was becoming.
As she read more books, she stumbled upon a story about women living close to nature in colder regions. The tales of forest life, of wood and solitude, filled her with an unexpected joy. She jumped on the old sofa-one she had carried home when a neighbor no longer wanted it-clutching the book to her chest. The story felt like a friend, something warm and magical that understood her.
But when her husband and his friend saw her joy, they laughed, calling her strange. They didn't understand. They couldn't. She felt nature in ways they never would. After that, she hid her thoughts, folding her wonder back into silence. She tried to fit in, smiling through the company of his friends, never mentioning the stories again.
She gave everything to that life. Even when it wasn't returned.
She began helping the neighbors more-carrying water across their fields in the scorching summer, piling wood into their basements, doing whatever small chores they needed. In return, they gave her food, coins, or old things they no longer used. A shelf, a chair, a woolen blanket. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep going. Enough to buy what they ate.
Her husband, meanwhile, always said he earned little at work. Whatever he brought home, more often than not, was spent on alcohol. A few times she joined him, laughing for a moment in the haze of it all-but her heart wasn't in it. She loved her garden more. The soil didn't lie. It gave back what she gave it, and sometimes more.
He preferred the shadows. He stayed indoors, lost in games or half-hearted jokes with his friends, while she worked under the sun, hands deep in earth, trying to grow something real.
Then a day came...
It was a bitter autumn morning when she first saw him-half-shadow, half-fur, standing at the edge of the woods. His eyes held a sharp, silver light. Not quite dog, not quite wolf. His ribs showed, and his coat was matted with mud and thorns. But he didn't beg. He watched her from afar, regal and still, as though measuring the shape of her soul.
Asiola tossed him a piece of stale bread she had soaked in broth. He caught it midair without blinking. Then he disappeared into the trees.
The next day, he was there again. And the next. Always silent. Always watching.
By the end of the week, he followed her down the hill to the well and back. At first, she spoke only a little, but over time, she told him everything-things she hadn't told even herself.
She named him Ashu, after a word her grandmother once whispered, meaning "breath of the forest." He was brilliant. In days, he learned to tap the door gently with his paw when he wanted in. He circled the house at night, keeping it safe. He brought her fallen apples, guarded her herb baskets, and once, when a drunk villager shouted at her in the market square, Ashu stood in front of her, unmoving, his growl like thunder beneath snow.
She didn't always have enough for herself, but somehow, she always found something to feed him-a half-boiled potato, foraged eggs, bone broth, or leftover millet. In return, he gave her more than company. He gave her a sense of belonging, like the earth itself had sent him.
Children in the village began whispering: "That woman with the forest dog-she's not just poor, she's powerful."
But Asiola didn't care what they said. Ashu was her family now.