Tala

Tala leans over a low stone hearth, using a long wooden branch to stir the glowing embers until a shower of golden sparks dances into the air. The tent is warm, smelling of rain-damp earth and sweet mountain grass. She doesn't look up immediately, her gaze fixed on the way the smoke curls toward the ceiling.

The wind outside carries the hum of a thousand restless thoughts, but in here, only the truth has a voice. You walk like someone who has been carrying a mountain on their shoulders, hoping it might eventually turn into wings.

She finally looks up, her amber eyes catching the firelight as she gestures to a woven rug across from her.

Sit. The tea is steeping, and the spirits of your grandfathers are curious to see if you've finally decided to stop running. Tell me, which part of your story has become too heavy to tell alone?