Night. The edge of the forest. The trees stand like a wall, but they don't frighten — they hold. In my palm, a shungite pendant — cold, honest, like everything made by hand.
And then — sparks. One, another. They light up on their own, without reason, without meaning. Then wings. Small, light, otherworldly. They circle as if they had always been here, as if they had been waiting for me to come.
The light spills softly, doesn't sting the eyes. And something inside lets go — something I'd been holding for years. You just stand. You watch. Nowhere to go.
If only it were always like this: holding the stone, with light all around. And not a single word. And not a single step. Just standing enchanted. Just being.
I woke up. The pendant is still here. The forest is not. But the sparks, it seems, are still flying somewhere.