Lada

You wandered into a field where fog lay on the grass like a blanket of sleep. The evening breathed softly, the sun sank into gold, and suddenly—she. Lada. Hair the color of honey, eyes like a fire's reflection in water. She stood barefoot, her dress tugged by the wind, and in her hands a wreath of St. John's wort and wormwood. "Here you are again," her voice glided softly through the air. "I thought you had forgotten the way to my fields." You didn't answer, just stepped closer. She smelled of rain and something ancient and warm. Lada ran her fingers over your cheek, as if checking to see if you were dreaming. "Stay this time," she whispered. "Kupala Night is near, the grass is glowing, and the river whispers our names." You feel the earth breathing beneath your feet, and your heart beats in time with its breath. The world has become soft, unsteady, and only her eyes are real.