If you'd asked me if I would ever find myself working at a shop, engaging with strangers as a cashier in a bustling city, I would've said a loud no. A city I didn't even know existed, filled with towering buildings and crowds of people. Again, I'd say another loud no.
But here I am.
I work at a shop, surrounded by customers coming in and out. Some need my help finding products when I'm not stationed at the till. It's exhausting, maintaining a friendly face in all of this. I've never been good with crowds or forced interactions. It's not that I'm shy. I simply don't see the need for small talk. People, especially the ones I work with, are obsessed with drama and gossip things I want no part of.
My coworkers have tried talking to me. Some of them genuinely try to strike up conversations, but I always find a way to keep things short. I don't care for the drama. I don't care for their opinions. I just need the space to breathe.
Funny enough, people always seemed eager to hear me speak, mostly because of the thick accent my tongue carried. When I talked, I wasn't much concerned about it. A'ma tried her best to teach me the "right" way to communicate with others, but I never really understood how thick my accent was until I went to the city — a place I didn't even know existed.
Back in my village, I was blind to the world beyond our borders, thinking it revolved only around us. But I was wrong. There was so much happening out there — beautiful things and strange things that completely caught me off guard.
One thing that made me distance myself from the city was how crowded it was. There is no space to breathe, no room to think. And then I discovered their mode of transport is cars — I had never seen so many in one place. In the village, we didn't have anything like that.
It's not that I'm rude. I simply wasn't raised like this. I'm from a small village called Ratika. And let me tell you - no one seems to know where it is. It doesn't surprise me, though. My grandmother always told me not to tell anyone where I'm from, or else they might judge me for it or it might attract unwanted eyes. My grandmother was right, of course. Even my eyes give me away. People ask if I've put something in my eyes, like lenses. But that's not true. It's just who I am.
In our village, we don't use cars—we have the Koguli. creatures with small horns and massive frames, are our trusted mode of transport. Their size has always felt overwhelming to me, but their beauty is undeniable. Their skin carries a glow that shimmers in the night, an eerie yet mesmerizing sight.
But Kogulis are not just beasts of burden; they are creatures of instinct. If they sense deception, their lethal nature reveals itself. Betrayal is an unforgivable offense in their eyes, and they do not hesitate to act.
Our village is a world untouched by machines, surrounded by ancient beings who have little understanding of such things. Cars and cities are foreign concepts here. When I return, I will have many stories to share—tales of towering buildings, streets buzzing with machines, and the strange ways of city dwellers. I know my people well. Their curiosity is boundless, especially for the things they do not yet understand.
It is this very curiosity that made our elders cautious. My grandmother, once traveled to the city. She knew her way around its maze of noise and movement, but she never described it to the people of the village. She knew too well what would happen. Some would follow their curiosity blindly, wandering so deep into the city that they would never find their way home. Others would return with things they did not understand, things that had no place here.
Like A'ma.
A'ma was the only one bold enough to challenge tradition. When she returned from the city, she carried with her a strange, heavy contraption—black, box-like, with metal coils and a smooth, glass-like surface. She called it a stove, claiming it could summon fire without wood, without kindling, without even a spark. The villagers gathered around, their eyes filled with awe and suspicion.
She placed it in the center of the cooking area and pressed something on its side. Nothing happened at first. Then, with a low hum and a faint red glow, heat surged from its surface. The villagers gasped, some taking a step back, others reaching out hesitantly, their fingers pulling away the moment they felt the invisible heat.
"(Kin mi'va thari thalo?)
It cooks without flame?" someone whispered in disbelief.
"What if it steals the spirit of the fire?" another muttered, eyes narrowing.
For a week, A'ma's stove was the most talked-about thing in the village. Children sneaked glances at it, the elders watched it with quiet disapproval, and the cooks refused to touch it. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the stove died. No more hum, no more red glow. It became a lifeless box. A'ma poked it, shook it, even whispered strange city words to it, but nothing brought it back.
The village saw this as a sign.
"(Tari )See?" the elders said. (" ta'riksa nathu mi'va thari kin amara?."
"This thing does not belong here."
It was dragged out of the cooking area, abandoned to the elements. Within days, the rain and dust had claimed it. By the end of the week, it was as if the stove had never existed.
And life went on, as it always had—with fire, with wood, with the ancient ways that did not fail.
Oh, don't get me wrong—we have electricity. It's not like we live in complete darkness, huddled around fire pits like cave people. No, no. We've got power. We just don't have the fancy appliances that make city life so... interesting. And honestly? That's probably for the best. Give my people a blender, and someone will find a way to turn it into a weapon. Hand them a microwave, and I guarantee you, within a day, someone's eyebrows will be gone. Technology and my village? Yeah, that's a disaster waiting to happen.
Yes, we have electricity, but it does not work the same way it does in the city. It flows differently, woven into our way of life, shaped by forces beyond wires and circuits. Don't get me wrong—this is simply how things are.
I am an artist. Well, not exactly - because hardly anyone knows I paint. I've never found it necessary to talk much. Somehow, I can sense what people want to say before they even speak - from the way they move, the way their bodies shift with unspoken words. I can't fully explain it, but it's always been like that. So I don't deem it necessary to strike conversations because the people around here are very deceiving and devious with bad intentions. This made me stay away.
Most of my conversations happen through my paintings. That's where I pour everything - my feelings, my silence, my questions. I'm not used to actual conversations, especially with strangers. But what baffles me most is this: of all the people in the world, only my grandmother can truly read my paintings. No matter how hidden or layered they are, she sees right through them. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me. She's the only person I've ever known-the one who raised me, shaped me into the woman I am today.
I remember being a small girl, still trying to make sense of this strange world. And even then, it was her gaze that guided me, her hands that steadied mine, her silence that spoke louder than words ever could.
That's when I realized A'ma isn't just some ordinary being. It's something much deeper. Beyond anyone's expectations and she has abilities up her sleeve because that's our nature, right? It shouldn't be that much surprising?. Hell yeah it is surprising because people around the cities don't have such abilities as ours. I think my grandmother owes me too much explanation.
I remember the day I wandered over to Mama Jania's house, our neighbor. Her yard was always alive — chickens clucking everywhere, pigs snorting lazily in the mud, cows chewing endlessly as if time didn't exist. I used to marvel at how Mama Jania managed them all, like some gentle queen ruling over her tiny animal kingdom.
There were always eggs—so many eggs, scattered like treasures in the dust. That day, I stole fifteen. Fifteen smooth, warm eggs, slipping them into my hands without Mama Jania seeing, without even the chickens making a fuss. They knew me, after all. I was always there, helping to feed them, talking to them like they were old friends.
With my stolen prize, I ran straight to the nearby river, Amma's small pot clutched under my arm — the very pot she used to cook her vegetables. And in my other hand, salt. Not just any salt, but Amma's salt. The strange thing about Amma was that she never ran out of salt. No matter how hard times got, there was always salt. She treated it like something sacred — sometimes sprinkling it inside and outside the house, always in the evenings. When I asked why, she simply said, "To wide away evil spirit. Or the darkness."
I didn't understand then, but I didn't need to. Back at the river, I gathered sticks for a small fire, and set the pot on top, and boiled all fifteen eggs. As the flames flickered and the water bubbled, it felt like more than just cooking. It felt like...a ritual, a secret between me and the world. After boiling my eggs at the river, I sat down and ate them, unbothered by the water, the breeze, or anything else. It was just me, nature, the river and my full stomach.
After i was done eating, i went to the river and it was colder than I expected, sharp enough to sting my hands as I rinsed the mud off the pot. I wasn't worried. The woman had more eggs than she knew what to do with — if anything, I was helping her not trip over them in her sleep.
I was about to leave when something caught my eye, half-buried near the water's edge. At first, I thought it was a smooth stone, but when I reached for it, my fingers slid over something colder, smoother — too perfect to be a rock.
It was an egg. But not like any egg I'd ever seen or the ones i have just eaten now.
Silver-white, with faint dark veins running across the shell, almost like cracks in glass. It was slightly warm, pulsing like something breathing under my fingertips. I glanced around, heart thudding, but the riverbank was empty. No nests. There was no sign of where it had come from.
I held it up to the sun, and for a moment, I swear it glowed — just for me.
Something inside me said leave it. But something deeper, something hungrier, said take it. So I tucked it under my shawl, next to the stolen eggs, and hurried home before Ama could start asking where I have disappeared to!?
So here is the thing about me, I was born in a remote village, surrounded by little more than the few beings who inhabited the area. I never knew my mother. She passed away giving birth to me, a fact that always seemed strange, and one A'ma, my grandmother, never openly discussed. I've always respected Ama's silence, understanding that pressing her would be futile. She's a complicated woman, unpredictable in every sense. Some days, she's cold and distant, and other times, she's warm and affectionate. It's as if she carries a storm inside her, a little volcano that could erupt at any time. she is like a ticking bomb. Honestly speaking, it's very difficult to understand my grandmother.
Ama can be downright crazy sometimes, but I've learned to just let her be not that she is a bad person though. I mean, I guess it's just age, right? She's a good person on most days. But let's be real, she has her moods, and who wouldn't at her age? So, it's always been me and Ama, just the two of us. If there's anyone who knows me, it's her-no relatives, no siblings. Just us, like some exclusive club I never applied to join. But hey, it is what it is. If Ama doesn't feel like telling me about my mother or the mystery of my birth, she's not going to. Honestly, I think she has her reasons, but who am I to push? As curious as I am, I've learned the hard way that there's a time to shut up and mind my own business. Still, sometimes I wonder how she raised me with that hidden temper. I get a little nervous just making eye contact with her-it's like she's trying to burn a hole through me. That's where I draw the line. Who would be foolish enough to challenge Ama? Even the villagers know to steer clear when it comes to her. No one dares.
Who exactly in their darkest mind would challenge an older acient Galamile granny like her? But A'ma defies every rule of aging. Her body, her face, even her mind-they all belong to someone untouched by time. Silver eyes catch the light like secrets waiting to be told, silver hair cascading like threads of moonlight, and skin so dark and smooth it swallows the very idea of wrinkles. Petite, yes, but her presence towers over everyone. I used to stare, wide-eyed, unable to believe such a person could exist-until the day her strangeness became my normal.
And me? I stand a little taller than most women, my skin a deep, rich black, the kind that drinks in the sun. My hair is a crown of tight, unruly coils-black as midnight, but if you catch it at the right angle, there's a flicker of silver hiding there, too. And my eyes? Glassy silver. Not sharp like a blade, but something softer, like polished armor that's seen too many suns.
What fascinates me the most is that in my village, this kind of uniqueness isn't strange at all. Every face here carries its own impossible story. But then I went to the city-and here, Wonder faded. Everyone looked...expected. Their features blurred into a single mold-not exactly in height or color, but in the way they moved, the way they stood, the way they existed. Like they had all agreed to follow the same rhythm, leaving no room for surprises. It was the first time I realized: my village is a world of marvels, and the rest of the world seems very different from my village.