Larksong Grotto white fog

he watched her, the way her paw traced the grass, the quiet certainty in her voice. she spoke as if she knew something he did not, as if time would unravel some unseen truth within him. he doubted that.
he shook his head again, slower this time. no.
he did not feel what she felt, did not believe as she did. but when she asked if he thought she was crazy, he hesitated. his gaze flickered, as if searching for something in her, and then he exhaled.
my mother was a priestess. of the star mother.
it felt foreign on his tongue, a truth he had buried deep beneath hardened years. he had spent his life running from it, from the weight of faith, the whispers of gods he did not understand. but here, in the hush of the grotto, with this strange girl and her quiet knowing, he found himself saying it anyway.