Submission (#560) Approved

“The Blooming Silence of Hallowmere”
Word Count Goal: 500+ | Prompt Theme: In a quiet town strangled by fear and fever, a soft-spoken wanderer brings healing not with power, but with presence—proving that sometimes, the strongest magic is simply staying when it would be easier to leave.

The path to Hallowmere was crooked and moss-slick, winding between weeping trees and stone bridges left half-buried by time. Lumiora’s steps were featherlight, leaving no mark on the forest floor. Twilight clung to her like a second skin, dappling her coat in greyish blues and shifting petal hues. Flowers nestled in her fur swayed with each movement, opening slowly as if to taste the breeze.

When she crested the last hill, the town revealed itself—a huddle of wooden buildings clinging to the river’s edge, lanterns flickering like soft fireflies in the mist. It looked peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

She passed the weather-worn sign that read:
“Welcome to Hallowmere”

There was no bustling marketplace. No music or chatter. Just the sound of wind through chimes and a distant cough that echoed longer than it should have.

Still, no one stared too long. A few offered polite nods—though their eyes darted, wary, to the strange shimmer trailing from her wings. Young tatsukoi peeked around corners, their faces alight with wonder until a nearby adult tugged them back behind doorframes.
She didn’t mind. She was used to being seen, not understood.

The inn was easy to spot—a timber-framed building with ivy curling over its sign,
The Fox & Fern.

Warm light leaked from its windows like honey, and soft laughter drifted through the shutters. Inside, a kind-eyed innkeeper greeted her, his smile a little too tight. “A traveler? You’ll be wantin’ the upstairs room. No extra charge, long as you keep to yourself.”

“I never take more than I give,” Lumiora said gently, her voice like wind through reeds. “Thank you.”

She was shown to a room that smelled of lavender and old parchment. It was quiet. Clean. Comfortable. But the silence clung strangely, like the whole town was holding its breath. Later, as stars began to peek through the cloud-splashed sky, Lumiora sat on the wooden stoop beneath the inn’s awning, sipping a steaming cup of herb tea. Her gaze wandered toward the dim lanterns across the square. From this distance, she could make out a pale blue chalk mark on the door of a nearby home. Another on the one beside it.

Odd. She’d seen that marking before, in another town… one that had suffered through a wave of fever last spring. A low moan echoed somewhere in the dark. Not pain—just discomfort. Weakness. She lowered her cup, brows furrowing just a little. The petals around her wrists curled, almost protectively. Her wings shifted, brushing the wooden porch with a soft thrum.
Something wasn’t right here.

And the wind whispered it too—brushing past her ear like a warning.

Morning in Hallowmere broke not with birdsong, but with coughing. Lumiora’s eyes opened before the first light touched the windowsill. Her flowers remained closed—sensing unease in the air—and her wings shifted against her back, their feathers slightly dimmer than usual.

Outside, the town was no longer pretending. Doors stayed shut. Curtains drawn. The streets were nearly empty save for a single cart hurriedly wheeled through the square, stacked with cloth and bottles that clinked together in a frantic rhythm. The scent of bitter root and burning thyme hung thick over the cobblestones.

She stepped outside with care. Her paws barely touched the ground, as if even the earth below was holding its breath. Down near the square, a small crowd had gathered. Not in protest—no, in desperation. A young mother clutched a child who looked far too still. An older man leaned against a post, sweat beading across his brow. There was a hollow silence between coughs, the kind that only grows when people are afraid to ask how bad it really is.

A black and green tatsukoi, no older than thirteen, bolted from a side street with bandages and a herbal pouch clutched to his chest. He nearly ran straight into her before skidding to a halt, blinking up at the winged stranger. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed.
She tilted her head gently. “Hello, my name is Lumiora. Do you need help?”

“Everyone needs help,” he muttered. “I—I’m the healer’s apprentice, but he collapsed last night. I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s spreading faster than it should. Fever, chills, fatigue, then they don’t wake up.”

His hands trembled. She could see he hadn’t slept. The petals behind her ears twitched. “Take me to them.”

The healer’s hut sat near the edge of town, nestled between the riverbank and a willow grove. Inside was chaos. Vials spilled across the counters, poultices left half-made, dried herbs hanging limp in the stifling air. On the cot, the village healer lay unconscious, face pale, lips tinged gray-blue.

Three more lay on the floor nearby, one of them the child Lumiora had seen the night before. Without hesitation, she moved to the girl first. Her bioluminescence hadn’t yet stirred—but this wasn’t about light. It was about life. Lumiora lowered her head, her paw gently brushing the girl’s forehead. Her breath came out slow, steady, as a soft hum welled up from her chest. A note, clear and low, like a lullaby carried through still water.

And then—light bloomed. Not bright. Not blinding. A pulse of soft white-gold, glowing from her chest and along her flowered limbs. Her petals unfurled one by one. The glow curled around the child like a veil, seeping gently beneath her fur.

The girl stirred.
The apprentice gasped.

“It’s not just magic,” Lumiora murmured. “It’s connection. Listening. Letting them borrow your strength.”

The apprentice looked like he might cry. “I—I’ve been trying, but I don’t know the right spells. I thought it was a curse—”

“It’s only sickness,” she said softly, moving to the next patient.

By the time she stepped out into the square again, two children had woken. One elder had opened his eyes and whispered thanks. The others were stable. Not healed, but held steady in the balance. Word spread like fire through dry brush and they started to gather. Mothers. Fathers. The sick. The fearful. Lumiora didn’t stand tall or make speeches. She simply said, “Bring them to me. Or I will come to them.”

By the second night, Lumiora could no longer feel her legs.

She hadn’t stopped—not once. Every hour brought new patients. New fevers. New faces twisted in fear or pain. Her wings, once pristine and bright, drooped with weariness. The petals across her body had faded to pale shades, some even curling at the edges, brittle from overuse. But she didn’t falter.

She had created a rhythm—gently brushing furrows from brows, lowering temperatures with a breath, drawing out the fever with a low glow from her core. A patient would slip unconscious—and Lumiora would stay until their heartbeat steadied, refusing to leave until the rhythm of life returned to them.

The apprentice did his best to keep up. He ran between homes, collecting ingredients and notes, soaking in every word she said, even when she spoke in that soft language that seemed older than the village itself.

“You’re burning out,” he warned on the third day, after she nearly collapsed beside the healer’s cot.

“I’m blooming,” she corrected, voice hoarse. “You cannot burn what was meant to shine.”

Still, he laid out a small cushion for her to rest her wings between patients. He made her tea brewed with ground lilies and cooled riverwater. He didn’t try to argue again.

But not everyone offered kindness.

There were whispers now. In doorways. Behind curtains. He heard them all, but Lumiora didn’t have to ask. She saw it in his clenched jaw, in the way he didn’t leave her side after sundown. She never responded to the accusations. She only kept healing. Until the knock came. A villager stood in the doorway—arms crossed, eyes sharp. He was a farmer, one of the few who hadn’t yet sought her help.

“My son’s gone cold,” he said flatly. “If this is your fault, and he dies, you better be gone by morning.”

The apprentice stepped forward, fists clenched, but Lumiora only nodded and followed the man into the fieldhouse. The young tatsukoi was barely breathing. She placed her paws over his chest and sang. Not with words. Not with magic spells. But with that deep, vibrational hum that trembled from her chest and down into the bones of the earth itself. Her bioluminescence returned, faint but steady, casting dappled shadows along the straw-covered floor.

Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Then—

The young one gasped, eyes fluttering open. The farmer dropped to his knees in stunned silence. Lumiora didn’t wait for thanks. She returned to the healer’s hut and curled beside the window, her wings curled tightly around her like a shield. Her glow was dim now.

Flickering.

The apprentice covered her with a blanket. He didn’t speak. That night, food was left by her door. Hot broth. Fresh bread. Herbs from someone’s private stock. And a single note written in soft charcoal script: “Please don’t leave.”

The sun rose slow over Hallowmere, its light slanting gold through a village that had finally gone quiet—for good reasons this time.
No coughing. No weeping.

Just the rustle of wind through drying laundry and the soft coo of doves on the rooftops. A kind of silence that felt earned, sacred. Inside the healer’s hut, Lumiora stirred. Her wings were still wrapped tight around her, but the glow had returned faintly to her petals. Pale blue. Gentle lilac. It wasn’t the blinding radiance of magic spent in battle—but the slow return of something alive.

He sat at the corner table, scribbling in a leather-bound book. When he saw her lift her head, his face broke into the kind of smile that only comes from days of holding your breath. “They’re all stable,” he said quietly. “Every last one. Even the healer. He woke up before dawn asking where the ‘goddess with the glowing petals had gone.”

Lumiora chuckled softly, voice still grainy. “Tell him she’s just a traveler.”

He stood and placed a warm cup into her paws. “And tell her—thank you.”

By midday, she was walking again, albeit slowly. She didn’t need farewells. Not really. Her kind never stayed long. But as she passed through the square—flowers blooming again along the path she walked—people gathered. Not to stop her. Not to praise her.
Just to see her. Truly see her.

The farmer who had once blamed her stepped forward first. His son clung to his leg, bright-eyed and healthy now. The man said nothing, but pressed a small carved charm into her paw—a wooden flower, rough but heartfelt.

Young Tatsukoi followed after her, scattering petals in her wake. She paused only once, at the bridge beyond the village. The river below sparkled in the light. Her wings stirred, catching a current of wind as petals danced around her ankles. Then—

“Will you come back?” the apprentice voiced.

She turned halfway, her gaze soft. “When the wind carries me near again,” she said. “And if I do… I’ll teach you more than tea and song.”

He laughed, a little too choked to be casual. “Then I’ll be ready.”

Lumiora turned toward the horizon, her bioluminescence flickering gently beneath the rising sun. And as she stepped back into the forest, the petals trailing behind her didn’t fade.

They rooted.
They bloomed.

Reward	Amount
Mystery Chest	2
Gold	3