02-08-2026, 03:38 PM
Seren listened, letting the rhythm of Casey’s words settle rather than rushing to fill the space. The motes around her were warm now, not flaring, just a steady, lived-in want. Comfort. Interest. The desire to be here a little longer. Seren found that easier to sit with than hunger.
“Recording an album sounds like the kind of work that follows you even when you’re meant to be resting. I’m glad you’ve found a pocket of quiet.” There was no envy in her tone, just understanding.
When Casey leaned forward, curiosity bright and unguarded, Seren felt the pull – not toward her, exactly, but toward the shared attention. She didn’t fight it. She simply didn’t amplify it. She set her cup down carefully. “One that keeps coming up,” she said, “is the figure who doesn’t do magic so much as… reveals it. Someone whose presence changes the choices people think they’re making on their own.” Her eyes lifted briefly to Casey’s, checking not for belief, just for interest. “In Welsh stories they’re called whisperers or awakeners. In parts of Eastern Europe they’re blamed for sudden migrations, broken vows, religious schisms. In North Africa they show up as saints people only realise they’ve met after their lives fall apart.” She gave a faint, crooked smile. “The stories never agree on whether that’s a blessing or a curse.”
She traced the edge of her new journal absently with her thumb. “There’s usually a warning attached,” she added. “That you shouldn’t get too close. Not because they’re evil, but because being seen by them changes you.”
The gold around Casey shifted at that – not flaring, not collapsing. Still safe. Seren softened her tone. “I don’t know if they were real,” she said honestly. “But the consistency fascinates me. Same themes, same consequences. Different centuries. Different excuses.” She picked her cup back up, wrapped her hands around it. “Old films probably do the same thing,” she said. “Repeat the same longings, dressed differently. Love, escape, reinvention.” Her gaze warmed, curious but careful. “Do you have a favourite?”
“Recording an album sounds like the kind of work that follows you even when you’re meant to be resting. I’m glad you’ve found a pocket of quiet.” There was no envy in her tone, just understanding.
When Casey leaned forward, curiosity bright and unguarded, Seren felt the pull – not toward her, exactly, but toward the shared attention. She didn’t fight it. She simply didn’t amplify it. She set her cup down carefully. “One that keeps coming up,” she said, “is the figure who doesn’t do magic so much as… reveals it. Someone whose presence changes the choices people think they’re making on their own.” Her eyes lifted briefly to Casey’s, checking not for belief, just for interest. “In Welsh stories they’re called whisperers or awakeners. In parts of Eastern Europe they’re blamed for sudden migrations, broken vows, religious schisms. In North Africa they show up as saints people only realise they’ve met after their lives fall apart.” She gave a faint, crooked smile. “The stories never agree on whether that’s a blessing or a curse.”
She traced the edge of her new journal absently with her thumb. “There’s usually a warning attached,” she added. “That you shouldn’t get too close. Not because they’re evil, but because being seen by them changes you.”
The gold around Casey shifted at that – not flaring, not collapsing. Still safe. Seren softened her tone. “I don’t know if they were real,” she said honestly. “But the consistency fascinates me. Same themes, same consequences. Different centuries. Different excuses.” She picked her cup back up, wrapped her hands around it. “Old films probably do the same thing,” she said. “Repeat the same longings, dressed differently. Love, escape, reinvention.” Her gaze warmed, curious but careful. “Do you have a favourite?”
![[Image: seren-lilith-.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/12/seren-lilith-.jpg)