They say when you are born, you are either loved by the gods—or frowned upon. As if fate, ancient and unseen, chooses sides the moment you take your first breath. Some are cradled in golden light, kissed by blessings before their eyes have even opened. And others... well, the world simply turns away. Not with cruelty, no—but with a quiet coldness, like a door softly closing before you even know you were meant to enter.
I was told this by my grandmother, time and time again. Not with sadness, but as part of the bedtime stories she spun for me beneath the flickering shadows of firelight. Her voice would rise and fall like music, her hands painting pictures in the air—tales of faraway kingdoms, girls who talked to birds, and forests that whispered secrets in the wind.
Worlds made of wonder and dust.
And at the end of each one—no matter if the story ended in triumph or tears—she always said the same words, as if they were a charm wrapped in silk:
"Wherever you go, let the roses guard your path."
I loved to close my eyes when she said it, imagining soft roses blooming all around me, petals unfolding like little hands reaching out to keep me safe. It felt like a secret only I was allowed to know, whispered just for me. It was warmth. It was home.
And it was always the last thing I heard before sleep came.
As my eyes drifted shut, and dreams curled their fingers around. If you looked out from my window—set high on the hill where our little house sat like a lantern watching the valley—you'd see the meadow. A wide ocean of roses, swaying gently as if dancing with the wind.
And there, right in the middle of all that red and pink and white... was a figure. Still. Shrouded in dark. Just standing, as if waiting for something.
And then—gone.
Vanished in the blink of an eye.
The old wooden door creaked softly as my grandmother peeked in, checking on me one last time. She smiled at the sight of me—arms and legs thrown every which way across the bed like some wild little monkey. She chuckled under her breath and tiptoed across the room, gently tugging the blanket back over my shoulder.
"Silly child," she whispered with love, brushing a kiss onto my forehead before slipping quietly out.
Down the hall, in the gentle golden glow of a single candle, my mother stood in the kitchen. She was by the window, her arms folded loosely, her eyes resting on the star-brushed sky.
"She never gets tired of your stories, does she?" she asked with a soft laugh, not turning her head.
Granny moved silently to join her, her joints creaking just a little. "No," she said, her voice quiet but warm. "But I think it's the chant she loves most."
"She listens so closely," my mother said. "I don't think she even blinks when you say it."
"She thinks it's magic," Granny added with a knowing smile.
"Maybe it is," said my mother. "Maybe not."
There was a long moment of silence as the night hummed around them. Then Granny glanced at her daughter, her eyes softening with something deeper than words.
They said my mother had been kissed by the gods.
When she was born, there was no breath. No cry. Just silence.
She lay in her mother's arms—still, pale, unmoving. The midwives shook their heads and let out quiet sobs. It was over, they said. Another soul lost too soon.
But her mother didn't let go.
She held that tiny body against her chest, her tears falling onto the crown of the baby's head.
And then—a miracle.
A gasp.
A cry.
A wail so loud it filled the house like thunder.
The baby's hair—once brown—shimmered with a strange light, shifting into the color of starlight itself. Pale gold, but not like anything of this world. It glittered in the candlelight, soft and otherworldly.
The villagers whispered. A child loved by the gods, they said. Marked.
But old sayings have long memories.
They also said that those touched by the gods often give birth to children who are frowned upon. It was an old superstition, buried in hushed voices and sidelong glances.
Still, my mother grew. From a miracle baby into a quiet girl. From a quiet girl into a strong young woman. And finally, into a wife, and then a mother.
My mother.
The next morning, light came slowly—like it was in no rush at all—spilling through the cracks in the wooden window in soft, golden ribbons. It tiptoed across the floor, crept up the walls, and gently kissed the edge of the little girl's bed. The world was still quiet, still wrapped in that in-between hush that lives right before day begins.
Underneath a tangle of woven blankets, a small figure stirred. One hand poked out first, stretching lazily through the dappled light as if trying to catch a dream before it drifted too far. Her little fingers closed over nothing but air, but she smiled anyway, her eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings.
Outside their home, the village was waking. You could hear it, even if you weren't yet ready to join it. Doors creaked open on tired hinges. Footsteps crunched on gravel. Voices rose like birdsong, soft and sleepy at first, then clearer, stronger, filled with purpose.
Men gathered their tools—hoes, baskets, long-handled nets—and headed to the fields or out toward the water, hoping the river would be kind and the forest would offer something back. Women moved like water through their homes, barefoot and gentle, waking children with touches on the cheek and whispers against their ears. There were yawns and tangled hair and small bodies clinging to warm blankets, reluctant to leave their dreams.
Inside one of those little homes, a soft voice broke the morning silence.
"Lara... Lara, it's time to wake up."
It was the kind of voice that didn't need to be loud. It carried warmth like honey and sunshine and something else—something that always made Lara feel safe, even if she didn't yet know why.
Peeking out from beneath the covers, Lara blinked up at the figure standing in the doorway. There she was—her mommy.
Her hair shimmered even in the dim morning light, long and flowing and the color of stars. Not silver. Not quite gold. Something in between, like the shimmer that dances across water at dusk. Her eyes were soft and full of something Lara hadn't yet learned the word for—but it felt like love and magic all rolled together.
She stood there with her arms crossed loosely, a smirk hiding in the corner of her lips.
"Good morning, Lara. Time to get up."
Lara groaned dramatically and buried herself back under the blankets. "No."
Mommy's eyebrow arched high, a signal that always made Lara giggle inside.
"No?" she said, stepping a little closer. "Did you just tell me no, Lara Mor?"
Lara's muffled voice squeaked from beneath the covers. "No, Mommy."
"Hmm." Mommy tapped her chin, as if she were considering what to do. "Well then... have it your way."
Lara peeked out just in time to see it—the mischievous glint in her mother's eyes. And then—
"Eeeek!" Lara squealed as her mother pounced onto the bed like a lioness.
What followed was nothing short of war. Tickles rained down like arrows. Mommy's fingers were quick and ruthless, dancing along Lara's neck, stomach, and sides. The little girl's laughter filled the room like sunshine exploding through a window.
"Stop! Stop! Mommy please—stop!" she gasped, wriggling and twisting, unable to breathe from all the giggling.
"Are you sure?" Mommy laughed, her own face red from joy, her voice light as the wind. "Because I can go on all day!"
"Nooo! I surrender! I surrender!" Lara cried, laughing so hard she kicked her feet and clutched her tummy.
Finally, Mommy relented, collapsing beside her on the bed, both of them breathless and tangled in the covers. She reached over and brushed a wild curl off Lara's forehead, tucking it behind her ear with the gentleness of someone who had done it a thousand times before.
"Do you want to get up now?" she asked, her voice soft again.
Lara shook her head stubbornly, her cheeks still flushed from laughter.
Mommy sighed like the weight of the world had fallen on her shoulders. "Well, I guess I have no choice then."
She got up slowly, dragging her feet dramatically toward the door, her arms swinging at her sides like she'd lost all hope.
Lara watched her every move, trying to hold back a giggle.
Then—
"Gotcha!" Mommy lunged, spinning around and yanking the blanket clean off the bed in one swift motion.
"Mommy!!" Lara shrieked, her feet kicking helplessly.
Before she could escape, Mommy scooped her up by the legs, holding her upside down like a sack of giggles.
Her long hair dangled toward the ground, and her view of the world flipped upside down.
"Do you want to get up now, Lara?" her mother asked, raising one eyebrow again.
But before Lara could answer—she began to spin.
The whole world became a blur of morning light and laughter.
When Mommy finally set her down, Lara wobbled like a little duckling, dizzy and breathless but full of joy.
"Alright, alright," Mommy chuckled, smoothing out Lara's wrinkled nightdress and kissing the top of her head. "Seeing as how you're finally up, let's go eat some breakfast."
Still panting, Lara nodded and slipped her small hand into her mother's. They padded down the hall together, bare feet on cool clay floors, the scent of porridge and warm fire greeting them like an old friend.
In the kitchen, Granny stood over the cooking pot, stirring the bubbling porridge with a long wooden spoon.
"Well, good morning, Lara," she said without turning. "My, oh my, what happened to the two of you?"
"Granny!" Lara cried, climbing onto the stool Mommy pulled out for her. "Mommy tickled me and then hung me upside down like I was a monkey!"
"Oh dear," Granny said, finally turning around, a twinkle in her eye. "That sounds serious."
Mommy took her place by the fire, stirring the pot now with practiced hands. The rhythm was slow and peaceful.
Granny sat beside Lara and tilted her head, examining her with pretend suspicion.
"Hmm... well, last time I checked, you are a monkey."
"Noooo, Granny!" Lara giggled. "I'm not! I promise I'm not!"
Granny narrowed her eyes and leaned in close, putting both hands on Lara's warm cheeks.
"Still warm," she said dramatically. "I think you should stay home today, little monkey."
With a grin, she planted a big, loud kiss on Lara's cheek, making the girl squeal and squirm.
"Granny! No! I'm going to the meadow with Nora!"
At that, Mommy turned from the fire, her expression softening with concern. The spoon paused in her hand.
"Why must you always go to the meadow, Lara?" she asked.
Her voice was calm, but her eyes held that motherly worry. The meadow sat high on the hilltop, and though it was beautiful, the climb was steep and rocky.
"But Mommy," Lara said, lifting her chin, "if I don't go... the roses will be all alone."