Moment of Clarity

The storm didn’t seem to end. Phile sat cross-legged on a table next to the window as she counted hailstones hitting the glass pane.

One hundred and twenty-one, two, three.

She used to count them in full. Now it took too long before the next one. She started with her fingers then the wall using a piece of chalk. Eventually, she found a pile of stones and counted those as well--all fifty-two of them plus three that rolled off the table. She’d gotten quite good at it. Every time she ran out of something to use, she would find another one and repeat the process until she eventually had nothing left but the voice in her head.

Pitter-patter. Four, five, six.

Occasionally, the hail would stop. A brief respite. Or is it? Phile hated waiting. She knew it would start again. But what she really hated was the reminder of being alone. Stewing in her thoughts. Stagnating. Melding into the darkness that enveloped her for the last few days. Or has it been a week? She couldn’t remember anymore.

Another one. A heavy thud. Seven. Phile couldn’t see outside. The window had frosted over, letting through only a faint yet constant glow of light. She could tell, however, that it wasn’t the usual clump of ice that hit this time. But it didn’t matter. A sound was a sound, something to keep her company. That’s what she counted.

Eight. Nine. Thirty. One.

The barrage stopped again. Phile was on the run. It wasn’t safe outside and she would have long been caught if it weren’t for this abandoned shed. Then the storm came and she had been stranded since. Grateful as she was, the following days had left her so drained, she could barely remember why she left the village. Did she even leave willingly?

Was it a fire? Another faeghast raid? Or perhaps—

Phile’s thoughts drifted as more hail pelted the glass. She felt weak. Not only was she hungry, but she was also cursed. Her dreams turned into nightmares every time she slept. Terrible ones that came true soon after. Yes. That’s it. She was chased away from her home, and she had been desperate to stay awake or the nightwraiths would find her too. That’s why she kept counting.

Jonah. Sira... Filli...

Phile was too tired to recall all of them. Unable to count, she found herself transfixed on those names. Were they her friends? Or her enemies? Why can’t she remember?

No. This is why I don’t want to think anymore. Just focus on counting.

Phile tried but immediately lost count. She was too distracted. No numbers. More names. Sounds etched in her memory, trying to force their way into her consciousness. She turned away from the window and pressed her back against the wall. An unexplainable regret gripped her chest, suffocating her. She gasped in agony and pressed her hands to her face as she desperately tried to will her thoughts away.

I’m trapped. It’s too dangerous outside but I’ll die before anyone finds me... Help, I have to get out of here!

In a panic, Phile scrambled from the table but her numb legs caught one of the corners, forcing her off at an awkward angle, knocking off the pile of stones, sending them crashing to the ground. The shock awakened her completely as her addled memories began to reform in her mind.

The stone-cold floor felt foreign to her palms as she tried in vain to stand--she had been sitting for so long that her legs had forgotten. The darkness in the cramped room was oppressive, and the constant yet irregular din from the window, her companion in the void of loneliness, began to unsettle her. Phile lost her ability to speak long ago but she tried anyway, only to let out a dry cough. She hadn’t drunk and eaten for several days, but she had to move. Out of this place. Into the freezing storm. To find food and water.

Running was a mistake. I should have... should have…

But it was too late. Her burst of clarity had passed and she was feeling weaker by the second. The storm was quickly becoming a murmur. Soon, her vision, her sensations, her consciousness would fade and she would enter that nightmare for the final time. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all? Her last dream was of herself, trapped in a world of ice and snow, surrounded by a sea of storms. If the others accused her of the famine, the fires, and the raids, perhaps her own demise would come true as well. She closed her eyes and surrendered herself to slumber.

Let the nightwraiths take me, then...

Then suddenly, an explosion of light. Phile had already resigned herself but the warmth made her open her eyes, blinding her. Yet she couldn’t look away. The storm had stopped and she could hear, smell, and feel something different again. And it all felt familiar. Comforting. Real.

The light darkened slightly as a silhouette partially obscured it. It smelled of wheat and grain, and its footsteps were light and muffled by the dirt and ice on its soles. Then it spoke, a tense, caring voice that somehow made her heart race. Jonah. 

“Finally, we found you. We can’t stay here long before the winds pick up again. Can you stand?”

Despite her state, Phile nodded. She wanted so much to walk and come out into the light. Breathe it into her. Feel it on her skin. Then another pair of hands brought her up, supporting her. Warm hands with the texture of gravel. Filli.

“Up you go. We’re getting out of here. Sira’s worried sick, you know? You should have gone to us first.”

“Fifty seconds. We have to hurry!” shouted another voice in the distance. Sira.

“We know. Just gotta let our little troublemaker get used to moving again.”

“She looks far worse than we thought. I’ll carry her.”

Phile laughed and shook her head, tears in her eyes. And with help from Jonah and Filli, she took tentative steps toward the light. Toward home. One, two, three. Among friends. Four, five. Filled with warmth. Six, seven. Living life in constant flux. Eight.