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My torches flicker, and heartache mixed with a sense of longing spreads into my chest, which tightens with the inability to fit it all.
“Would you like some help?” Zenya asks, her words and eyes filled with compassion and understanding while nodding to her mother’s skeleton. “Do you have Zinnias?”
The little girl nods. “Daddy…” She swallows and glances around before leaning closer to say, “He got some seeds for me after I was bad and promised to be good. I planted them on the side of our house.”
“Would you like to go get them?”
Little Zenya blinks at first but then scrambles to her feet and hurries to follow Zenya’s directions. My throat burns with unshed tears, remaining strong even in the face of the woman I love who reaches a trembling hand to her mother’s skull before touching her fingers to her lips and pressing it to the cheekbone.
It doesn’t take long for little Zenya to return with a handful of Zinnias.
Emotion swells in my heart as I observe the two figures kneeling at the burial site, their movements mirroring each other with solemnity and reverence. Twin souls.
As they tenderly place the bones of Zenya’s mother back into the earth and push mounds of soil over it, giggling now and then over how dirty they get, pride, admiration, and a deep sense of empathy fills me—for the trials Zenya has endured. Trials that span this time.
I watch as Zenya’s gentle and steady hands guide her younger self through the process, their bond palpable even through the haze of time.
With the bones buried, Zenya gathers a handful of Zinnias, handing a few to her younger self, who squints once again, eyeing the woman. Her eyes scan the tattoos all over her arms. But she says nothing…yet.
They plant the flowers carefully over the burial site, pressing the seeds into the soil with gentle, reverent touches.
“Remember to be gentle,” Zenya murmurs, guiding her younger self through the process. The younger Zenya nods, her small hands mimicking the careful movements.
With the seedlings safely cradled in their hands, they placed the remaining Zinnias into the freshly dug holes, patting the soil around them to secure their new home. The vibrant blooms grow as symbols of endurance and daily remembrance, a testament to the Zenya’s healing.
As they water the transplanted flowers, the Zinnias seem to settle into their new surroundings, their colors bright against the backdrop of the forest.
More pride surges through me at Zenya nurturing her past self with patience and care. Zinnias represent strength and perseverance as well as everlasting friendship.
For the first time, Zenya is becoming friends with her inner child. When Zinnias may survive in harsh conditions, this nightis a testimony to what Zenya may endure. I sense the power blooming in her heart, a reflection of the flowers that will soon grow.
Healing and growth define the moment.
Finally, Zenya and her child self return to the sandbox where she helps take the tiny bones and form them into a necklace with fabric strings from the raggedy dolls. The younger Zenya parts her lips in awe and admiration.
As Zenya finishes tying the makeshift necklace around her younger self’s throat, little Zenya looks up at her with an innocent wonder. “Are you an angel?”
Zenya smiles with a hint of wistfulness. “Kind of,” she says softly. Those words seem to echo through my heart. I know the complex history of Beastie—a fallen angel. Poetic justice surrounds Zenya’s answer, a reflection of her own journey and transformation.
As little Zenya runs off to show her father the necklace, I posture with pride, my torches shining brighter. Not just for the child, but for the woman Zenya has become. Her tattoos swirl with life at her father’s reaction when he emerges from the woodshed, noting his approval of his daughter for finding her own way and wearing the bones as a symbol of her lessons learned.
With the tender moment concluded, Zenya leans over the sandbox, her focus shifting to the task. She must find the artifact.
As the Goddess of Magic and Witchcraft, I know exactly what and where it is.
So, I step forward, a commanding presence, but I wish to comfort her.
“Zenya,” I call in a steady voice, understanding she needs my strength, my anchor. When Zenya turns to face me, eyesquestioning, I say, “Remember, I am the Goddess of Magic. There ismagicin that sand.”
Zenya’s eyes widen in realization. “Why didn’t I see it before?”
I smile, placing a hand on Zenya’s shoulder. “Sometimes, we need to be reminded of the power within us and around us. The sand holds memories, dreams, and the essence of what once was. Dig deep, and you will find what you seek.”
I sense Morpheus in the shadows, approving of the sign and symbol of sand.
Zenya nods with a renewed purpose. She sifts through the sand with deliberate, careful movements, guided by my words. A silent guardian, I protect her, knowing this moment is crucial for Zenya’s journey.
For a moment, I glance up at the stars—so many, they are like diamonds shattered into smithereens of endless light
