The wind always greeted her first, tugging at her hair, brushing her skin like an impatient friend who had much to say. She carried her woven bag the same way her mother once had, resting it against her hip as though the weight connected her to generations before her. The pomegranate trees were heavy this year, their branches bending with ruby fruit. Some had already fallen, scattering across the earth like forgotten jewels.
She bent to gather them, but not all made it into her pouch. A few slipped through her fingers, rolling away in small rebellions. They said she moved like someone listening to music no one else could hear. Maybe she did. Because every time the wind swept across the field, she felt something ancient stir, something from the old stories, the ones whispered during long summers when the world felt still and magic felt close.
And as she straightened her back, pouch filling with red suns, she wondered if the fallen fruits were not accidents at all, but invitations. Little reminders that some things-some joys-are meant to be picked up, and some are meant to run wild. When she walked home, the scent of pomegranates trailed behind her. And those who crossed her path swore they felt the wind change direction, just for a moment. As if it followed her. As if it knew her name.