The moon marked bride

The Way Things Have Always Been

Mornings in Lunewood always went by slowly it unfolded like the village itself was stretching after a long and peaceful sleep.

I woke up to the scent of herbs before my eyes even opened. It started off faint like something sweet and floral, like the moonbloom petals steeping in warm water but it grew stronger, until the whole room smelt like my mum's herbal store.

For a few moments I stayed perfectly still, listening to the distant clink of a bucket as someone drew water from the well.

I sat up slowly, pushing my messy silver hair away from my face. Golden morning light slipped through the thin curtains, catching dust particles in the air and turning them into tiny, drifting stars. My room looked the same as always with the old quilt folded at the foot of the bed, the small shelf of dried flowers and old books and the faint crack in the ceiling beam I had always stared at since I was a child.

I exhaled and swung my legs over the side of the bed, and let my feet touch the cool wooden floor.

Out of habit, my hand went to the pendant resting against my collarbone then my thumb brushed over the smooth crescent of moonstone it was a necklace I worn every day for as long as I could remember.

“Good,” I whispered to the empty room, though I wasn’t sure why the word came out at all.

I stood and put on a simple blue dress, and tied my hair back with a leather cord. Then I stepped out of my room I could already hear my mother in the kitchen before I even reached it she hummed the same melody she sang almost every morning. I had grown up with that tune but I never asked where she learned it.

When I walked in, she turned from the stove,l with a small smile already lighting her face. Her chestnut hair was loosely braided with a few strands escaping around her cheeks the way they always did when she worked.

“There you are,” she said warmly. “I was just about to come drag you out of bed.”

“I’m not that hard to wake,” I replied, sliding into my usual chair at the wooden table.

She gave me a look with one eyebrow raised. “You say that, but last week you slept straight through the rooster crowing twice.”

“Last week doesn’t count,” I said, fighting a smile.

“It absolutely counts.” She set a steaming cup of herbal tea in front of me, the scent of mint was rising up from the steam.

I wrapped both hands around the warm cup and took a slow sip. The heat spread through my chest, easing the last tight knots from the night before.

“You woke up early again,” she said, sitting down across from me with her own cup.

“I couldn’t sleep in,” I said with a shrug.

“That’s new for you.”

“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming responsible and everything.”

She huffed a soft laugh. “I’ll believe that when I see it, Aerin.”

We ate our breakfast in silence mum had made thick slices of fresh bread drizzled with honey and a few early plums still warm from the tree. The kind of breakfast we had shared a thousand times.

“You’ve been working harder lately,” she said .

I glanced up from my bread. “Is that a complaint?”

“It’s an observation.” She tore her piece of bread in half and slid one piece toward me. “You don’t have to carry the whole shop on your shoulders, you know.”

“I’m not carrying everything,” I said, though the words came out quieter than I meant them to. “I just want to be useful.”

“You already are,” she replied softly. “More than you realize.”

I looked down at my tea, watching the steam curl upward. “I know.”

But sometimes knowing and feeling weren’t the same thing.

She watched me for a long moment, like she wanted to say more. Maybe ask about the shadows under my eyes or the way I had been staring at nothing lately. But in the end she just reached over and squeezed my hand once before letting go.

“Eat,” she said instead.

I smiled faintly and did as I was told.

After breakfast we walked to the shop together, the way we had almost every morning for years. The village was fully awake now with sunlight pouring through the canopy of old oak trees and people moving about their routines greeting neighbors, carrying baskets, laughing over small jokes.

“Morning, Liora,” called old Mr Bren from his doorway.

“Good morning, Aerin,” added his wife, waving a flour dusted hand.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” someone else chimed in.

I smiled and returned the greetings, keeping my voice light. And yet I still caught the glances.

Some people gave quick looks when they thought I wasn’t paying attention or whispers that died the moment I got too close I had learned how to pretend I didn’t notice but of course I did.

“You don’t have to mind them,” my mother said quietly as we walked.

“I’m not,” I answered automatically.

She gave me a look that said she didn’t quite believe me.

“I’m used to it,” I added with a small shrug.

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” I admitted. “But it’s normal. For me, anyway.”

We kept walking in silence after that with the only sound between us being the soft crunch of our footsteps.

When we reached the shop, the little brass bell chimed as we stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling . I moved behind the counter without thinking, reaching for the pestle and mortar.

“You can take it slow today,” my mother said as she started sorting through a fresh bundle of rosemary.

“I always take it slow,” I replied.

She raised an eyebrow at me.

“Okay, maybe not always,” I said with a grin.

She smiled back at me and we continued with our normal morning routine.

Customers started coming in soon after. Mrs Thorne wanted more of her sleep tonic while young Elias came in with a nasty cut on his palm from helping his father in the fields. Later that day an older man with aching joints watched me mix his remedy.

“You have a steady hand,” he remarked.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I said, carefully wrapping the bundle.

“More than most girls your age.”

I shrugged lightly. “I started helping when I was small.”

He nodded, but his gaze lingered a little longer than it was meant to be I looked away first, keeping myself busy with labeling the next jar.

By midday the shop had grown quiet again. The sunlight slanted through the windows at a new angle, making the glass jars on the shelves glow softly. I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness from standing so long.

“You’ve been on your feet too much,” my mother said without looking up from what she was doing.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s usually true,” I replied with a faint smile.

She hummed, clearly unconvinced, but let it drop.

I stepped outside for a moment to catch some fresh air. The forest stood just at the edge of the village . I had spent countless hours among those trees as a child, gathering herbs with my mother, climbing low branches or even listening to the wind move through the leaves. It had always felt like an extension of home.

Today it felt distant like I was looking at it through a thin veil I couldn’t quite push aside.

I stared at it a little bit longer then shook my head quickly.

“You’re doing it again,” I muttered under my breath. “Thinking too much and seeing things that aren’t there.”

I turned away and headed back inside before the feeling could settle any deeper.

Dinner that evening was our usual stew with root vegetables, fresh bread, and cool water from the well. My mother talked more in the evenings, sharing bits of village gossip she pretended not to care about and I always listened, smiling because this was the way family evenings were supposed to feel.

Until one small moment she was in the middle of a story about the new baker when she suddenly paused, her gaze drifting slightly, as if she were listening to something far away.

“What?” I asked.

She blinked and looked back at me, smiling quickly. “Nothing, love. I just lost my thought.”

“You stopped talking mid sentence.”

“Did I?” She laughed softly, . “I must be getting old.”

I studied her for a second longer, searching her face. But whatever had been there was already gone.

“Okay,” I said finally, letting it drop.

Later that night, after the dishes were washed and put away, I sat outside on the small wooden bench beside our cottage. The air had cooled, carrying the sweet scent of night blooming flowers and damp earth.

I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky. Stars were beginning to appear and the moon hung there too.

I reached up and touched the pendant at my throat. “See?” I murmured to myself. “Nothing at all.”

I sat there a while longer, letting the peace of the evening sink into my bones. Then I stood, stretched, and headed back inside.

When I finally laid down in bed, sleep came easier than it had the night before. My body felt heavier, like the strange tension from the previous days was finally starting to loosen its grip. I closed my eyes and let the quiet darkness fold around me.

For a long time there was nothing just the soft rhythm of my breathing and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the forest.

Until, right on the edge of sleep, I felt it again. A distant pull like something brushing gently against me .

And then, just before everything faded completely I heard it.

“Aerin…”

My eyes opened.

The room was silent and empty.

The moon's light spilled across the floor and I stared into the darkness for a long moment with my heart beating a little faster than it should have.

Then, very slowly, I turned my head toward the window.

And this time I didn’t tell myself it was just my imagination.

I simply laid there wondering how long I could keep pretending that everything was exactly the way it had always been.