When time permits

Previously

…And then she was gone, leaving Elara with the watch, the feather, and the sapling. And the poem. Always the poem. That night, Elara wrote until her hand ached. She filled pages with words about clocks and soil and hands that point. She wrote about waiting and becoming and the room that grows around curiosity. And when she finally stopped, the notebook was full, and the watch was ticking a steady, peaceful rhythm. She fell asleep with the watch in her hand, feeling the pulse of time, knowing that she was no longer waiting. She was becoming. And the world was full of doors, all of them open, all of them waiting for her to walk through.