Elara's Hidden Words

The blue of the feather was the first thing Lily noticed when she finally surfaced from the deep, swirling currents of her dream. It was a vibrant, almost audacious blue, the colour of a kingfisher’s wing or the deepest summer sky just before twilight. It lay nestled in the palm of her hand, cool and smooth, impossibly real against her skin. She blinked, the edges of the dream fraying like old lace, leaving behind only the lingering echo of Elara’s laughter, a sound so achingly familiar it twisted in Lily’s chest.

Elara. Her Elara. Gone these past two months, swallowed by the silence that always descended on Oakhaven with the first whisper of August. Lily had dreamt of her, not as the hollow ache in her memory, but as if she were standing right there, in the dappled sunlight of Lily’s own bedroom. Elara had been smiling, her eyes sparkling with that mischievous light Lily knew so well, and then she had pressed something into Lily’s hand. A painted blue feather.

Lily’s heart gave a frantic little flutter. She sat up, the feather a tangible piece of the dream, a whisper from beyond the veil. It was exactly the shade of blue Elara always favoured, the colour that adorned the wings of the fantastical birds she’d sketch in her worn notebook, the birds that soared through imaginary skies in her vibrant paintings. Lily traced the delicate barbules of the feather with a trembling finger. Elara had always loved blue.