The Parable of the Lost Sheep

The air in Elder Maeve’s small cottage was thick with the scent of dried herbs and the quiet hum of patience. Outside, the wind had begun to whisper its discontent, a low grumble that mirrored the unease in Elara’s own heart. She sat across from Maeve, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the familiar knot of worry tightening in her chest. The village was still struggling, the crops meager, the laughter of children muted by the gnawing scarcity. Even the sun seemed to hold its breath, hesitant to cast its warmth upon their shadowed valley.

Maeve, her eyes the colour of warm honey and holding a depth that spoke of countless seasons, gently stirred a pot of herbal tea. Steam curled upwards, carrying with it a fragrance that promised comfort. “You carry a heavy burden, child,” Maeve said, her voice as soft as moss. “I see it in the way you hold your shoulders, like you’re trying to shield yourself from a storm that rages within.”

Elara’s gaze dropped to the worn wooden table between them. “It’s… it’s the stories, Elder Maeve. The stories of a God who loves us, who watches over us. Sometimes, when I look at our village, at the hunger and the fear, I wonder if those stories are just that – stories. If there’s really a light, or if we’re just left to stumble in the dark.” The words tumbled out, raw and vulnerable, a confession she’d held captive for too long.