Chapter 78 – Words in the Quiet
Dawn rose slowly over the shelter, the sky washed in soft oranges and pale blues. The forest around the group was still waking — birds warming up their songs, leaves catching the early light, the dew stretching itself across the grass like glassy threads.
The fire from last night had burned down to faint embers. Jess poked at them sleepily with a stick. Marco attempted to toast a granola bar over the coals. SkyWaker meditated dramatically with Sir Quacksworth perched on their knee. SleepisforT stretched and yawned.
Riley checked the map with calm morning focus.
Fleta sat at the front edge of the shelter, hugging her knees, watching the world brighten.
And Lark sat beside her.
Quiet. Breathing steady. Hands folded in their lap, holding something small.
A notebook.
Fleta blinked. “You write?”
Lark’s cheeks warmed. “I… used to. Haven’t in a long time.”
“What made you start again?”
Lark looked at her with a shy, grateful smile.
“You,” they said softly. “Your poems. The way you use words to… make sense of things.”
Fleta felt her face flush. “I wasn’t trying to inspire anyone.”
“Maybe not,” Lark said. “But you did.”
The forest hummed around them — a quiet morning orchestra.
After a moment, Lark asked hesitantly, “Can I… read something? It’s not finished. But I want you to hear it.”
Fleta nodded. “I’d like that.”
Lark opened the small notebook. The pages were crinkled from the storm, the edges curled and soft, but the ink was clear.
They took a breath — the kind people take before saying something true.
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Lark’s Poem – After Lightning
Shelter Night
I thought storms meant endings— the kind you don’t come back from, the kind that swallow the path and leave you in the dark.
But then the lightning flashed, and instead of finding fear, I found voices— calling to me, pulling me toward warmth.
I used to walk alone. Thought I had to. Thought that needing help meant I’d failed somewhere along the way.
But last night I learned this: some shelters are built of wood, and some are built of people— hands that reach, voices that steady, paths that cross at the right moment.
I am still shaking, but I am still here.
And for the first time, I’m not surviving the storm alone.
When Lark finished, their hands trembled just slightly — the same tremble Fleta remembered feeling after reading her own poems aloud.
Fleta blinked fast, moved. “Lark… that was beautiful.”
Lark’s throat bobbed as they swallowed. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Fleta said. “You wrote the truth.”
Lark let out a shaky breath. “It feels different when someone else believes you.”
Fleta smiled softly. “Yeah. It does.”
Jess suddenly appeared behind them like a cartoon character. “I HEARD POETIC ENERGY. WHAT DID I MISS?”
Marco leaned over her shoulder. “Are we doing morning poetry? Because I can contribute a limerick about trail snacks.”
SleepisforT groaned. “Please don’t.”
SkyWaker stood tall. “WE ARE GATHERED HERE FOR ART!”
Lark flushed. “I—I wasn’t—”
Fleta rested a calming hand near theirs. “Only if you want to.”
Lark hesitated, then shook their head gently. “Not yet. Maybe later.”
Riley approached with her pack slung over one shoulder, smiling softly. “No rush. Words come when they’re ready.”
Lark nodded gratefully.
As the group prepared to leave, Fleta watched Lark tuck the notebook carefully into their jacket pocket. Not hiding it — protecting it.
Cherishing it.
Fleta realized something then:
Healing wasn’t just about becoming strong. Sometimes it was about becoming open. Brave enough to let someone else hear your truth.
As they stepped back onto the trail, sunlight warming their backs, Lark walked beside her.
Not afraid. Not alone. StillMoving in their own way.
And Fleta whispered into the crisp morning air:
“We’re both still moving.”
Lark smiled softly. “Yeah. We are.”
And the trail — wide and green and waiting — opened before them like a promise.
