Teacher by day, Farmer by passion

Sarah narrowed her eyes. A river burial?

No incense. No guards. No rites. Just silence and a desperate girl with a lantern.

A crude, broken ritual.

Was this all that remained for the old woman?

Sarah's first instinct was judgment.

Foolish. A child playing funeral priest.

But she said nothing.

She hovered, watching.

The boat slipped into the water.

Not cleanly—but like a wound being opened.

Ripples spread, soft and slow—

like the world exhaling one final goodbye.

As the boat began to drift, the girl's eyes lit up with a quiet joy. Tears shimmered, not from sorrow alone, but from a fragile hope rekindled deep within her heart.

She ran after the boat.

Bare feet splashing through the shallows, she lunged forward—gripping the edge of the boat, pulling herself in with clumsy strength.

She clutched the lantern close to her chest, breathing heavily.

Suicidal, Sarah thought at first, arching a brow. Or maybe just mad with grief.

Either way… it stirred something.

She tilted her head. Then, with a faint sigh, let her curiosity win.

A breeze swirled around her.

And without a sound, Sarah descended—her silhouette slipping across the water like a ghost… towards the flickering lantern.

When she arrived at the boat, the first thing the girl asked was,

"Do you want to get in?"

She didn't ask why Sarah was floating in the sky. Didn't gape in awe or recoil in fear.

Was she dull in the head? That was Sarah's first thought as she stepped lightly onto the boat.

The little girl grabbed an oar and began to row.

Sarah didn't offer to help. She simply watched in silence, waiting—perhaps expecting the girl to ask for assistance. But the girl never did.

Instead, she tried to lighten the air between them.

"Stranger, you're really pretty," she said sweetly, cheeks puffed with effort as she rowed.

Sarah blinked. For all the books she had devoured in the forbidden library—tomes of power, texts older than empires—none had prepared her for this.

For kindness.

"T-thank you," she replied, and was startled by the stammer in her own voice. It surprised her more than the compliment itself.

"I'm Alice," the girl said cheerfully. "What's your name?"

Sarah let out a sudden laugh. It slipped out uninvited, and she blinked again. Why was she laughing?

Because the girl, despite her age, acted with such disarming sincerity that Sarah felt herself—her younger self—responding in turn.

Alice tilted her head at the unexpected outburst but waited patiently.

"I'm Sarah," she said at last, calming herself. "The guardian of the Dark Valley River."

"You're the guardian of this river?" Alice asked, eyes wide with wonder.

"Yes," Sarah replied gently. "I'll safeguard your journey across. You won't have to worry—not for your life, not today."

"Yay!" Alice beamed.

Sarah's expression softened, then grew curious. "Why are you ferrying the dead?" she asked. "Do you have relatives on the other side?"

She was prepared to carry them herself if it was urgent. Yet Alice shook her head.

"My mother isn't dead."

Sarah raised a brow. "But… she's not breathing."

Alice nodded, still smiling. "That's because she's saving her strength for when we reach the village doctor."

Sarah glanced toward the unmoving figure of the woman lying still in the boat. Her heart ached.

But she smiled nonetheless. "Can you tell me about your mother?"

Alice's eyes lit up. "My mother? She never scolded me, even when I was wrong. She just taught me what was right, and how to learn from mistakes."

"She's the best chef. She makes food so good, even the sky tastes jealous! She tells me bedtime stories, teaches me songs. I love her a lot."

Her voice sparkled with adoration.

"You know, one time…"

And the girl kept speaking—story after story—while Sarah listened quietly, staring at this child who embodied everything she had once lost.

A daughter filled with love.

A mother worthy of it.

After a while, Alice leaned forward, touched her mother's face gently, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Mother," she whispered. "We're almost there. Wake up now. The doctor's waiting."

Sarah's voice came out low.

"Alice."

"Yes?" Alice turned to her.

"What did your mother ask you to do if… if she stopped breathing?"

Alice paused, thoughtful. Then she said softly,

"She told me to put her on the boat and send her across alone."

Sarah's voice tightened. "Then… why didn't you?"

Alice's smile wavered. Tears welled in her eyes as she replied,

"Because… I'd be all alone."

"I don't know how to feed myself. My mother never taught me how to cook. She never showed me how to make earth cakes. She didn't say which bark to boil for flavor, or when she'd be back…"

"I… I don't want to be alone."

And with that, her bravado cracked. Her small shoulders shook, and the child within her—raw and real—finally emerged.

Sarah sat still. No spell she had ever cast had been heavier than this silence.

Not even the forbidden incantations could match the weight of a child's grief.

She looked at this child, and in her reflection, saw something she had long buried.

Her voice, when it came, was soft.

"Your mother… won't be coming back."

Alice wiped at her tears with the back of her sleeve.

Really?"

The word wasn't disbelief. It was hope—shattered mid-breath.

As if some part of her still thought this might be a bad dream.

"She won't," Sarah said gently. "But… if you let me… I'll take care of you."

Her voice trembled—not from uncertainty, but from something older.

Regret.

"I'll feed you. Teach you bark and broth. And maybe—someday—you can tell me more of her stories."

Alice paused. Then slowly shook her head.

"When she finally spoke, it was no longer the cheerful voice of a child.

"Kind stranger," she said.

The words fell flat, as if they no longer belonged to her.

She didn't call her Sister Sarah like before. There was no warmth or familiarity. Just a quiet resignation.

Sarah noticed the shift instantly. It was the kind of change no spell could mask—only loss could carve it so deeply.

"You can fly, can't you?" Alice continued, eyes not meeting hers. "I saw you."

Sarah remained silent.

"Then… please," Alice whispered, her fingers trembling as they clutched her mother's hand.

"Let me have this final moment with her."

She curled beside the body, her fingers never leaving her mother's, the lantern between them still glowing, as if holding back the night just a little longer.