The Night Lily Keeper I: weighing questions

In the quiet folds of a misty valley, just beyond the whispering pines and forgotten trails, lived an old man named Callahan. His small cottage sat on the edge of the world, or so the villagers said, surrounded by a garden that bloomed only under moonlight. The heart of that garden held a rare and mysterious flower—the Night Lily, a blossom that shimmered like starlight and opened only when the world slept. With him always was Zane, a gray wolf with eyes like ancient silver, never straying far from Callahan’s side.

To the village below, Callahan was little more than a story, a legend passed between firelight and bedtime tales. “He speaks to the moon,” the old ones whispered. “And his flowers cure sorrow.”

One evening, a young woman named Elira left the village with a burden heavy on her soul. Life had given her choices that twisted like brambles, none of them kind. With nowhere else to turn, and remembering the old stories, she followed the forest path, chasing myths and moonlight.

It was nearly dawn when she reached the edge of the garden. There stood Callahan, as though he had always been waiting. Zane watched her quietly, his gaze calm and unjudging.

“You’ve come far,” Callahan said with a nod, his voice like the rustle of wind in old trees. “Come. Let me show you something.”

He led her through his garden where the night lilies glowed with a soft, ethereal light. “These flowers bloom only when the world is quiet,” he said, brushing a petal with care. “They don’t force the sun to leave—they simply wait for their time. Still, they shine. Still, they live.”

Elira stood silently, watching the lilies dance in the breeze, their glow reflecting in her eyes.

“Sometimes,” Callahan continued, “we carry burdens because we think we must act now, solve everything at once. But like the lilies, sometimes we must wait. Grow quietly. Let the world turn, and trust that our time to bloom will come.”

He said nothing more, and she asked no questions. She stayed in the garden until the stars faded and the morning light crept over the hills. Her burden hadn’t vanished—but it no longer pressed so sharply on her shoulders.

When she returned to the village, the townsfolk crowded her with curiosity.

“Did you find him?” they asked. “Was the old man real?”

Elira only smiled, a little wiser now, her heart lighter. “Well,” she said, “I could tell you. But I think you just have to travel the path yourself… if you truly wish to understand the truth.”

And with that, she walked on, like moonlight slipping into morning.