Ashu didn't bark much. He listened more than any human ever had.
In the long silence of Asiola's days, his quiet presence grew louder than words. When she worked the garden, he lay nearby, watching with his golden eyes. When she gathered mushrooms in the forest, he stayed just behind, his steps silent, alert to danger. Once, when she slipped on a mossy stone and gashed her knee, Ashu ran ahead, fetched her basket, and returned with it held gently in his teeth.
The villagers noticed.
At first, they kept their distance. A woman alone with a wolfish creature stirred old superstitions. They whispered: "She talks to beasts," and, "That's no normal dog—that's a spirit."
But some of them came to her quietly, seeking help. A rash. A sleepless child. A wound that wouldn't heal. They had heard she knew the forest. That she brewed teas that calmed grief. That she could tell when someone was lying, just by the way the leaves shifted in the wind.
She never asked for much in return—sometimes a jar of honey, a wool scarf, an extra candle. Sometimes nothing at all.
Ashu always stood nearby, silent, his gaze piercing. Those who meant no harm left with ease. Those who carried cruel intentions found their mouths dry and their feet heavy.
One night, a storm split the sky. The house trembled under roaring wind, and cold rain swept through the cracked windows. Asiola lit a small fire and curled in her blanket. Ashu came to lie beside her, placing his great head gently on her lap. She stroked his fur, whispering stories from her childhood—not the ones of pain, but the ones of dreams. Of the ocean that sometimes came to her in sleep. Of strange glowing fish, of girls with fins instead of feet. Of laughter in the water, and songs no one taught her.
Ashu listened as if he remembered it too.
And in that moment, Asiola realized something: she was no longer just surviving. She was weaving something new. A life threaded with soil, wind, and memory. A home with four walls, a garden, a fire—and now, a guardian with wild blood and a heart that beat with hers.
Curled beside the warmth of the dog, her fingers tangled in its soft fur, Asiola let her body sink into the quiet. The steady rhythm of breath—hers and the animal's—lulled her, loosening the tight grip of waking thoughts. Her eyelids grew heavy, her chest rising and falling in harmony with the world around her.
And as sleep took her, the edges of the room blurred and faded. The scent of earth gave way to mist.
As the mist thickened, her body floated weightlessly once more, as if she were between worlds—no longer bound by form or time.
Soft, melodic whispers drifted through the fog. Not voices exactly, but a language of feeling—waves of warmth, sorrow, joy, and longing. Each wave pulled her in a different direction, and she began to see glimpses: a castle of coral beneath the sea, its halls empty; a sky island where beings with translucent wings sang to the stars; a burning tree that wept sap like golden tears.
From the fog, a childlike figure emerged—glowing faintly, with gills on its neck and webbed fingers. It held a tiny mirror and placed it gently in the goddess's hand. When she looked into it, she saw not her face, but many—flashes of lifetimes across different worlds: a wounded soldier, a mother holding a sick child, a beast curled in a cave, a girl planting seeds.
The mirror darkened, and then, with a burst of white light, it became a pool of water. She looked down and saw her current self again—the one who now lived in a village, who had found a wolf-dog and fed it scraps, who slept beneath a roof made of old boards and stars.
And then—she woke.
Life with her husband became more like living beside a ghost. His presence was distant, swallowed by addiction, and his care vanished into the walls of the house that barely stood.
Asiola moved through the days with a quiet determination. She began gathering what others no longer needed-an old kitchen closet from a kind elder at the edge of the village, a chipped sink from a family that had just renovated, and an oven that coughed but still held a flame. Her fireplace was nothing more than a rusted iron barrel, found behind a barn, but it held strong through a bitter winter.
She survived on canned plums gifted by a neighbor and the occasional loaf of bread. Nights were spent curled up on a worn-out sofa, wrapped in a heavy winter coat, her breath fogging in the cold air. She burned pinecones, dry twigs, and whatever scraps of wood she could find, feeding the fire with careful hands and watching the flickers of flame like old companions. It wasn't comfort, but it was enough.
When spring arrived, the land softened, and with it came a little more life. Asiola found more to eat-wild greens, dandelion roots, nettles, and sometimes mushrooms when the rains were just right. Her husband, meanwhile, disappeared more often, spending days at his grandmother's house where there was warmth, food, and drink. The old woman, kind at heart, didn't ask questions. Sometimes she even brought leftovers to Asiola, staying for few minutes and went back to her home. It was easier that way.
Not long after, one of the old women from the village-a quiet helper from a charity group-noticed Asiola's worn shoes and thin wrists. She made a few calls, and within a week, packages of pasta began arriving. Free food, quietly given, no shame attached.
Asiola began cooking simple meals-pasta with a single onion, wild herbs, or even boiled apples. Anything that added flavor to the starch and softened the ache in her stomach.
Summers were easier. Nature gave more, and Asiola gave back. She dried herbs, cooked stews, and sealed glass jars with whatever food she could find. Old pickle jars, honey containers, anything with a lid. She stacked them carefully in the shade, preparing for another winter.
Her brother visited once, bringing a small iron stove he had found secondhand. It was a step up from the barrel-still tiny, but it held a flame. Only short pieces of wood fit inside, so Asiola gathered pinecones by the sackful, filling old potato bags until they bulged like harvest baskets.
That year, the apples bore heavily. Tree branches sagged with fruit, and Asiola dried tray after tray of slices, storing them in fabric bags. All winter, she chewed on them-tart, sweet, chewy with memory. They were her work, her reward. She had cleared around the trees, trimmed dead limbs, and fed the roots with compost and care. The trees had noticed.
She started asking gently, politely. A neighbor let her gather walnuts from beneath the trees. Another gave her permission to pick the small wild peaches that bloomed mostly for show. These small yeses from the world around her felt like a quiet acknowledgment: You are seen. You are part of this place.