The healing paste I made is sitting in a small, ceramic jar on the counter. I apply another layer, wincing as the herbs sting the still-tender flesh. As I rewrap the wound, I try to push away thoughts of what will happen if it doesn’t heal properly. If I can’t gather herbs next week, I won’t have any income at all.
The cottage feels too quiet, too empty. I lean back in my chair, Luna curled in my lap, and let my mind wander to my mother. Her face is fuzzy in my memory now, more a feeling than an image, but I can still hear her voice sometimes.
“Look for the light in people, little star,” she used to say, her hands warm as she brushed my hair. “There is always light, even when it’s hard to see. Be positive, always positive. The world has enough darkness.”
“There is always light,” I repea
