Fiona's POV
The scent of herbs clung to the air. It was thick and earthy, settling into every crack of the wooden cabin. Miriam’s hands moved in steady practiced motions crushing dried leaves into a bowl. Stains which struck me as remnants of past mixtures darkened her fingers.
She hummed an old tune, the kind that felt familiar but impossible to place. Across from her, I sat. Watching. Waiting. Listening.
My hand slid subconsciously to my stomach. Again. The habit was getting stronger.
Miriam noticed. Of course, she did.
She always did.
Her gaze pressed against my side, a quiet weight that demanded acknowledgement. I didn’t give in. Not yet. But she was patient, relentless in her own way.
"Still feels strange, doesn’t it?" A casual question, laced with mischief.
I braced myself.
