The first sign that something was wrong wasn't the heat pooling low in Miriam's belly, or the restless way her skin felt too tight—as if it no longer fit the life she'd been stitched into.
It was the smell.
The air outside the kitchen door should have been familiar. Damp earth from last night's rain. Hay stacked near the barn. Soap and yeast and the faint sweetness of bread cooling on the counter behind her.
Instead, it hit her all at once.
Too sharp. Too layered. Every scent pressing in on the next until her head swam.
And her vision—why was it blurring at the edges? That didn't make any sense.
Miriam gripped the doorframe and forced herself to breathe through her nose, slow and careful, the way Mamm had taught her when she was a child and storms rolled in without warning.
Breathe. Count. Obey.
The wood beneath her fingers was rough, nicked and worn smooth in places where generations of hands had rested. That, at least, felt right. Solid. Real.
Her body did not.
Her heartbeat thudded louder than it should. The fabric at her throat suddenly felt like a noose. Even the gentle brush of her sleeve against her arm made her shiver, nerves sparking where she should have felt nothing at all.
Miriam?
She flinched.
Ma stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, flour dusting her hands. Her hair was pinned back neatly, every movement purposeful and practiced. Faith lived in Ma's body the way breath did—unquestioned and constant. The perfect Christian woman.
"You're pale," Ma said, studying her. "Bist du krank?"
Miriam swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "No," she said too quickly. "I'm fine."
Ma's brow creased. She crossed the kitchen in three quiet steps and pressed the back of her hand to Miriam's cheek. "You're warm."
The word sent a strange, curling sensation through Miriam's chest.
She was warm.
Warm in places she hadn't felt warm before.
"I didn't sleep well," she said. It was true, at least. She'd spent half the night staring at the ceiling, tossing beneath her quilt, her thoughts drifting to places she did not allow them to go—places she prayed away in the daylight.
Ma withdrew her hand but didn't look convinced. "You should sit. Eat something."
Miriam nodded and moved to the table, her chair scraping softly against the floor. The sound felt too loud. Everything did.
She tore off a piece of bread and chewed mechanically, though it tasted like nothing. The kitchen was quiet except for the steady rhythm of Ma's movements and the distant lowing of cattle beyond the open window.
Normal. This was normal.
And yet—
Outside, a wagon rolled past the house, wheels crunching over gravel. Miriam's attention snapped to the sound before she could stop herself, her senses sharpening, stretching outward as if searching for something she couldn't name.
Her chest tightened.
So did her thighs.
What in the heavens—
Ma noticed. Of course she did.
"You've been distracted lately," Ma said carefully, as if testing the words before letting them land. "Is it about rumspringa?"
Miriam's grip tightened around the edge of the table.
Rumspringa.
The word lived in their home like a storm on the horizon—acknowledged but never welcomed. A time of testing. Of temptation. Of choosing.
"No," Miriam said, and hated how thin it sounded.
Ma held her gaze a moment longer. There was concern there, yes—but also something else.
Caution.
"You know," Ma said softly, "when a young woman has… worries, it's good to speak with someone. Mamm. Or the bishop's wife."
Worries? By the heavens, worries barely scratched the surface of what she was feeling.
Miriam nodded because nodding was easier than speaking. Worries were allowed. Worries could be confessed and forgiven.
This did not feel like a worry.
This felt like a tide coming in—slow, inevitable, and hungry.
Ma turned back to the counter, accepting the half-truth the way people in this house always did. Gently. Carefully. As if pulling too hard might unravel something they could not fix.
Miriam finished her bread and stood, her legs unsteady beneath her. "I'll help in the garden."
Ma glanced at her again, then nodded. "Don't overdo it. The bishop's family is coming for supper tonight."
Outside, the morning sun was brighter than it should have been. Miriam shielded her eyes, the light too sharp, her senses still stretched thin. Even the air smelled different here—richer, fuller, as if the world had suddenly turned its volume up.
She knelt in the dirt and tried to focus on the simple rhythm of work.
Pull. Shake loose. Set aside. Repeat.
It helped.
A little.
Until it didn't.
A sudden wave of warmth rolled through her, stealing her breath. Miriam froze, one hand buried in the soil, the other braced against her thigh. Her pulse fluttered erratically, heat curling through her veins like something waking after a long sleep.
This wasn't illness.
She knew the signs—or at least, she thought she did. No one had ever told her outright what to expect when—if—it happened. The darkening. Becoming one of those kinds of people. The signs were whispered about, warned against, spoken of only in cautionary tones.
The kinds of people who were born wrong.
Miriam pressed her lips together, shame rising swift and sharp.
No. She couldn't think that way. She wouldn't. She had done everything right. Followed every rule. Prayed every prayer.
This was temptation. A test.
She wasn't darkening. She wasn't one of those kinds.
She could still pass.
The church bell rang in the distance, steady and familiar. Miriam closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her, grounding herself in it.
Obey. Endure. Be still.
But beneath the bell's rhythm, something else stirred—quiet but insistent.
A pull.
That evening—blessed Savior—dinner passed without another stir in her body. The bishop was ever so kind, his wife gentle and soft-spoken. They spoke of Miriam's upcoming rumspringa as a joyous occasion, a time of seeking wisdom.
Thank the blessed Lord they didn't ask why she had waited until after her eighteenth birthday to participate, unlike her peers who had begun their unsupervised weekends at sixteen.
She hadn't wanted to. Not really. She'd never felt the desire to explore beyond the confines of their community until last week—when she'd woken suddenly from a sound sleep, her blood warm in her veins, her body tingling, her senses alive.
Miriam had never experienced anything like it before.
This sudden curiosity.
Was it because she had turned eighteen two days ago? That made no sense. Birthdays had never affected her before.
And yet something stirred within her now.
Something… other.
As the sun dipped low and the sky softened into shades of gold and blue, Miriam stood in her room and folded her dresses with careful precision. Plain fabric. Muted colors. Everything in its place.
Rumspringa would begin in three days.
She had counted them, though she pretended she hadn't.
Her reflection in the small mirror looked the same as it always had—hair braided neatly, face calm, eyes lowered.
A good daughter. A good girl.
Her body disagreed.
As night fell, the warmth returned, deeper this time, settling beneath her skin. Miriam lay awake long after the house had gone quiet, her thoughts skittering dangerously close to forbidden territory.
What if this wasn't something to be prayed away?
The idea frightened her more than the sensations themselves.
Outside, a breeze rustled through the trees. Miriam turned her face toward the window and inhaled slowly.
And then—
A scent.
Faint. Unfamiliar. Not from the house or the land she'd known all her life.
Her heart stuttered.
Miriam sat up, pulse racing, every nerve suddenly alert. The warmth inside her flared, sharp and unmistakable, and with it came a certainty that stole her breath.
Something was changing.
And whatever it was—
It would not be ignored.