Woven Into the Wind
Silas had wandered far, chasing whispers of wind and the shimmer of light that felt just right. He sought a place where the birds sang without fear, where the sun spilled gold across the earth like a blessing. A final place. A sacred place. One where her memory could take root and bloom for lifetimes.
The crew of the Stromcrow had puzzled over the weight of the marble, the strange request for stones that seemed to speak of temples. But Silas had seen it in dreams—in flickers of memory and longing. He knew where it must stand, and why.
After meeting Elodi and Caspian beneath the old ka-la-na trees, he understood: this was not only for Portus, or Niamh, or the elders whose names were etched in the family’s bones. It was for those yet to be born. The children of their children. The ones who would ask, “Who was Belle?” and deserve more than silence.
So he built. Brick by brick, stone by stone, he shaped a portal—not of magic, but of memory. A threshold between what was and what might be. Those who stepped through it would see the past if they looked back, or glimpse the future if they dared to look ahead. It was all a matter of light and perspective.
And when the birds wheeled above in the amber dusk, Silas sat in the grass, hands resting on his knees, eyes lifted to the sky. “Oh, my Belle,” he whispered. “My dearest. You are not gone. You are not lost. You are woven into the wind.”
Strange, how the words now came aloud—words he once only dared to write. He longed for her ghost, for a trick of fate, for her laughter to echo from the stones and call him foolish. He longed for her to say it was all a jest, a cruel joke played on an old man’s heart.
He saw the question in Niamh’s eyes. Felt it in Elodi’s silence. Heard it in Caspian’s breath. And still, he could not answer.
A breeze stirred the dandelions nearby, lifting their seeds into a quiet dance—weightless, radiant, eternal. Light and wind moved together, carrying something unseen but deeply felt.
How he wished to dance with her, on the sea’s breath. To hold her in the moonlight. To hear her teasing laugh as he stumbled through rhythm, hopelessly out of step.
“Oh, my Belle,” he murmured. “You will never be forgotten. Not while the wind still moves. Not while the light still falls.”
Crows Murder 
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