They told her to follow the jars of light. And really, it should have been that easy.
But it was impossible to reach the end of the path when the lights wouldn’t stop calling out to her. Like restless jewels – emerald and sapphires, rubies and amethysts – they reminded her of captives knocking on windows for help.
She could feel the ache behind each glow, each desperate to tell its tale.
She had always loved a good story.
The glass was cool to the touch, dewed with the night’s breath.
A gasp – and the meadow became a circus of spun light, consuming her. When she opened her eyes again, the air pinned her down with its icy grip. She was a fever, a self-consuming fire, a wild thing now trapped in glass.
Don’t touch the jars, they said. Just follow them. And really, it should have been that easy.