58: A Little Poet's Spell
After Eva leaves, the garden feels different—quiet, heavy with a presence Seraphina can't quite name. She hadn't meant to let the little girl stay so long in her lap, hadn't meant to feel her soft fingers touch her cheek or hear her fragile poem in Latin spoken like a secret spell. Eva isn't like other children. She's fearless and tender all at once, weaving magic in the simplest words, making Seraphina feel smaller, softer, and strangely seen.
The poem—beautiful, awkward, and full of heart—catches Seraphina off guard. It opens something inside her she didn't know was there, a warm ache that lingers long after Eva has gone. Alone beneath the magnolia tree, Seraphina lets the feeling wash over her: something bright and delicate, like a quiet flame.
She wonders if she'll ever be brave enough to return Eva's unspoken gift, to write back, or even—one day—kiss her. For now, she carries the memory like a secret treasure, a poet's moon lighting the edges of her world.
In her room, Seraphina writes—a new kind of poem, one without rules, flowing straight from her heart. It's messy and hopeful and hers.
Because sometimes, the most powerful spells are the ones spoken softly, between two souls who choose to see each other.