After the encounter with the officers, the carriage rolled steadily along the road. My back throbbed, but Miss Hazel's ointment and bandages kept it bearable. The journey stretched out like a ribbon of calm, almost boring—but the quiet was heavy, like the forest had followed us in spirit.
"Hello, little girl. What are you drawing?" I leaned toward Zinnia.
"My name is Zinnia, not 'little girl,'" she replied, eyes glued to her sketchpad.
"Right, I know that," I murmured, unsure how to continue.
Heiwa, looking out the window, let out a soft chuckle.
"That's a lovely drawing," I said. "Are those your butterflies?"
"They're called Sparkle," Zinnia corrected, glancing up briefly.
"Could you introduce me?" I asked, curious about the strange, luminous swarm surrounding her.
Zinnia hesitated, then tilted her head toward the small cluster near her basket. "Sparkle, the lady with no horns wants to meet you," she said quietly. "Mum said to be nice."
She glanced at Heiwa. "But you have to let me touch it first."
Heiwa's ears twitched, acknowledging the request.
"Alright," I said, nudging her gently. "Go on."
"This is Sparkle," Zinnia announced proudly after a careful introduction.
"Wow… so small and delicate," I whispered, watching the creatures flicker like living gems.
"And Sparkle is a spawn of butterflies?" I asked, noticing the few that remained inside the carriage.
"That's usually how he appears," Zinnia said, offering Heiwa a biscuit.
"Thank you for letting me draw you," she said.
"You're welcome," Heiwa replied, a soft smile forming. Zinnia's grin widened in response.
I helped with Zinnia's hair, tying it into a neat knot. She hopped off my lap, handing me a biscuit she had saved, then ate one herself. Some of the butterflies alighted on her braid, delicate wings brushing her dark hair, but none approached the side of the carriage where Heiwa and I sat.
The sun climbed higher, the heat pressing down—but the soft glow of the butterflies kept the moment almost magical.
"Miss Victoria, can I have some water?" Zinnia asked, sweat on her small forehead. I handed her a cup, watching the swarm drift lazily.
Even in this peaceful bubble, I couldn't shake the shadow behind my thoughts—the scorched forest, the cultists, Miss Hazel's calm authority. The memory pressed against my chest like a weight I couldn't lift.
As the day passed, Zinnia finally curled up and fell asleep, sketchpad clutched to her chest, her breathing steady. The carriage continued under the golden sun, the road stretching ahead.
And yet, even with the mundane quiet of wheels on dirt, I felt it—a subtle tremor, like the world behind the forest had not released its hold. Something lingered. Watching. Waiting.
The journey back was calm. But nothing—not even sunlight or laughter—could erase the quiet tension threading through it.