The girl's thoughts grew louder, their whispers echoing even in the quietest moments. The dream had awakened something in her—a yearning she couldn't understand, a pull toward a world that felt more real than the one she lived in.
That night, unable to sleep, she sat by her window, staring at the moonlit garden outside. The flowers there seemed different now, their colors muted, their movements lifeless compared to the meadow in her dream. She whispered softly to herself, "If I had been born from a flower bud, would I have been happier? Would I have felt... whole?"
The next morning, she returned to the garden. It was quiet, save for the chirping of distant birds. She knelt by the flowerbeds, running her fingers over the petals. They were soft, but cold. "It's not the same," she muttered. "Why don't they feel alive?"
The days passed, but the dream refused to fade. She found herself drawn to books about nature, myths, and legends, searching for answers. Her classmates noticed her growing detachment, but they didn't ask questions. She was already invisible to them, and now, she felt like a ghost in her own life.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she stood at the edge of the woods near her house. The trees whispered in the wind, their shadows long and twisted. Something inside her urged her to go deeper. Maybe the answers are there, she thought.
She stepped into the forest, the earthy scent of moss and leaves filling her lungs. The deeper she went, the quieter the world became. Her footsteps softened on the forest floor, and soon, she came upon a small clearing. It was eerily familiar—the golden light, the swaying flowers. It wasn't the same meadow from her dream, but it felt close, like an echo of it.
In the center of the clearing stood a single flower bud, smaller and duller than the one in her dream. She knelt beside it, her heart pounding. "Are you... fairy?" she whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the petals. For a moment, she thought she felt warmth, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
The sky darkened, and she realized she had been sitting there for hours. She turned to leave but stopped when she heard a faint sound—a soft hum, like the song of the wind. She looked back at the flower bud, her breath catching in her throat. It was trembling, its petals quivering as if something inside was trying to break free.
Her heart raced. "Is this... real?" she asked aloud, but there was no one to answer.
She reached out again, her hand hovering just above the flower. This time, she felt it—warmth, faint but undeniable. She closed her eyes, and for a brief moment, she heard a voice, soft and distant, like the murmur of a stream.
"You are not one of us," it said. "But you are searching, and that is enough."
When she opened her eyes, the flower was still. The warmth was gone, and the clearing felt colder, emptier. She stumbled back, her chest tight with confusion. "What does that mean?" she whispered, but there was no answer.
As she made her way back home, the words repeated in her mind: You are searching, and that is enough. For the first time, she felt like she wasn't alone, like something or someone understood her.
That night, as she lay in bed, she whispered to herself, "If I'm not fairy... then what am I?"
And for the first time, she didn't feel fear. She felt curiosity, burning bright and unrelenting, like a fire in the dark.