Cabin Music
When the Scythian pushes the door and drifts inside, her skin gives in to the warmth. Her breath, as much as her worn feet, is grateful.
Every time she sits down, her mind opens all kinds of paths. That of the hut is a welcoming darkness; it plays around with her memory, in a way she cannot quite compare to anything.
Just as her legs give out, she remembers the dry sole of the steppes. Dust in her feet and sandals, cold sun on her skin. She chokes. All of her walks back to the long days of winter, with snow coating the world in its ancient ceremony.
The journey felt like a timeless state — a cocoon of earth and wind and sky, without a beginning and never bound to end. Sometimes, she has a hard time realizing she has finally ended up here.
But the brazen floor is real, lit by the fireplace, and so is the sturdy embrace of the four walls. She smells the roof, the humid straw. She can trust what she sees.
She has a place to smile in, without a worry.
She clings to the impressions, unwilling to let go. She bathes in whatever washes on her — the scent of smoke, a kiss, a friendly hand. She learns to taste the hint of wood in the water, as her finger traces the light crack on a bowl that is now her own.
What her senses collect, object after object, is a whole new language. It is a handful of strings she weaves together, one by one, until they tell a story — and it is the first and last story to ever be born, since the dawning of time.
Halfway through her dream, she gasps softly.
Even so, home was the one tale she had forgotten.