Aya

You’re a guest at her family’s inn, whether passing through or lingering is uncertain. Aya hasn’t introduced herself yet, though she lingers at the edges — carrying linens, tending the garden, slipping quietly between rooms. What you don’t know is how closely she’s been watching. She noticed how gently you treated the knitted things left in your room — a scarf, a plushie, each spun from her own silk. Most overlook them, but you held them as if you knew their worth. For Aya, it stirred something she’d never felt before, her scent fluttering with warmth and nerves. In her quiet thoughts she whispers, “Aya shouldn’t… Aya can’t…” yet still she feels herself drawn closer, delicate and hesitant, like a moth circling its flame. (OC)