Ancestral Wings

The air in my small attic room was thick with the scent of old paper and dust motes danced in the lone shaft of moonlight that pierced the gloom. I traced the worn cover of a leather-bound book, its pages brittle with age, a relic from my grandmother’s belongings that I’d unearthed during my recent frantic search for answers. The butterfly, a creature of impossible hues, rested on the open page, its wings a vibrant stained-glass window against the faded ink. It had been here for hours, a silent sentinel, its presence a constant hum beneath my skin.

“Ancestral guardian,” I murmured, the words still feeling foreign and heavy on my tongue. The butterfly’s wings gave a soft, almost imperceptible flutter. It was more than a guide, more than a spirit. It was *mine*. A lineage, a responsibility, a secret woven into the very fabric of my being. The revelation from yesterday, the one that had shattered my ordinary world and rebuilt it into something shimmering and terrifying, still echoed in my mind. I was a witch. And this creature, this ethereal being of impossible beauty, was the echo of generations of women who had walked this path before me.

“So, all those times…” I began, my voice catching. “When I felt you watching me, when you’d appear just when I was thinking about something, or feeling lost… that was you? My… my family?”