Emon
The inside of Bibi Kamwe’s house was nothing like I expected.
It looked small from the outside, weathered and crooked, like it had been built by stories rather than hands, but inside, it seemed to breathe as if it was alive.
The walls were lined with shelves crammed with jars, bones, feathers, dried flowers, stones that shimmered like stars and shells that looked as if they were of extinct animals. Candles flickered in bowls of water. A fireplace crackled low, and shadows danced across the wooden floor like old spirits warming themselves.
The air smelled of herbs, smoke, and something older. Something sacred.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to a low stool near the fire.
I obeyed without a word.
She poured something dark and steaming into a clay cup and handed it to me.
“Drink. It
