Goddess, Unmade

Kora

The field is dying.

I can feel it in my bones, a chill that seeps into my marrow and refuses to let go. The grass still sways gently in the breeze, and the flowers haven’t yet wilted, but there’s an underlying wrongness that pricks at my consciousness. The sky above me is a canvas of bleeding gray, thick clouds stretched taut like bruises across the flesh of the heavens. Beneath my bare feet, the wildflowers grow in too neat a pattern, rows of wilting daffodils and crumbling lavender. Every color is muted, faded, like an old photograph left to rot in the glovebox of a forgotten car.

The dirt is warm against my skin, but the wind cuts through me like a knife, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs. My freckles feel sharper, more pronounced, as if everything about me is suddenly more defined, more visible. I can feel his gaze. I turn to look at the source of the whisper, a voice that curls around my bones and makes me remember things I never lived.

“Kora...” it says, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. “He’s coming for you.”

The field bends, the flowers leaning in one direction as if bowing to an unseen force. My heartbeat stutters, and I feel that familiar thrum behind my ears, the one that precedes a lightning strike or the moment after someone says your name in a way that makes your throat dry. The clouds split, and for a heartbeat, the rain turns red, staining the ground like a sacrifice. And then I see him. Far away, standing at the edge of the field where the trees begin, shadowed and tall, like a specter that has stood there since the dawn of time.

I can’t see his face, but I feel his smile. It’s a knowing smile, one that says he’s been waiting for me longer than time should allow.

“Wake up, little goddess,” his voice whispers through the air, and my chest aches in response.

My mark burns—though I don’t know why I have one—and just before I jolt awake, I hear a heartbeat. Not mine. Not his. But ours.

I wake up with the taste of rain in my mouth, the phantom sensation of it dripping down my skin. The room is bathed in the pale gray haze of early morning, the kind of light that makes you question whether the world has fully decided to exist yet. My throat is dry, and my skin is clammy, and I can still feel that heartbeat echoing through me, a low and strange pulse that seems to resonate in my very soul.

And the name... Kora. My name, but not as I’ve ever heard it. Not from my sister, not from Ash, not even in my own thoughts. That voice said it like it belonged to me in a way I’ve never believed it did. Like it meant something profound and ancient.

I sit up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck, and blink down at my sheets—twisted and tangled, as if I’ve been fighting something in my sleep. There’s a thin sheen of sweat over my arms, and for a moment, I swear the freckles across my skin feel... brighter. Like they’ve soaked in moonlight and are now glowing with an otherworldly light. Ridiculous, I know, but the sensation lingers nonetheless.

Today’s my birthday. I’m eighteen.

And somehow, that feels heavier than it should. Like I’ve stepped into something ancient just by surviving this long.

I slide out of bed, my feet hitting the cool wood floor, and stretch. My fingers tremble slightly, and I don’t know why. The room is quiet, too quiet, and the silence presses in on me, making it hard to think. I head downstairs, the smell of cinnamon hitting me before I make it halfway down. Marley’s already at it—birthday breakfast. Probably pancakes, heavy on the sugar, lighter on the guilt. Her love language is food and mockery in equal doses.

Sure enough, she’s standing at the stove in a hoodie with no pants, one sock on, singing terribly to some 2000s playlist she stole from my phone. She turns when she hears me and beams, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she takes in my disheveled state.

“Look who’s finally legal! We can start lying about your age now.”

“Why stop at my age?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “I’m thinking new identity, fake passport, and an alias by noon.”

“Perfect,” she says, flipping a pancake with a little too much enthusiasm. “We’ll start with your stripper name. Ready? Your middle name and the street you grew up on—go.”

I roll my eyes and slump into the kitchen chair. My heart still hasn’t settled. The world feels off, like it’s tilted a few degrees to the left and no one else noticed.

“I had a weird dream,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Marley turns off the burner, plates the pancakes, and sets one in front of me. “You always have weird dreams, Kor. Comes with the whole mysterious orphan with a tragic past thing. Eat.”

I try. I really do. But each bite feels like I’m swallowing cotton. That name is still echoing in my head. The way he said it. Little goddess.

I’ve barely managed to down half a pancake when there’s a knock at the front door. Not the usual knock either—this one’s got rhythm. A little tap, then a pause, then two faster ones.

Ash. Always trying to make an entrance, even if it’s through wood.

Marley glances over her shoulder. “Tell lover boy if he brought flowers, I want some. And if he didn’t bring flowers, I still want some.”

I smirk and head for the door, smoothing my hair out of sheer muscle memory. When I open it, he’s already smiling, leaning against the porch railing like some damn teenage daydream. His dark curls are a mess, and that stupid leather jacket he insists is “vintage” is falling apart at the seams. He’s holding a small box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, and his eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them.

“Morning, birthday girl.” His voice is soft, low, a gentle rumble that I feel in my spine before my heart catches up. “I brought you something.”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to hide my smile. “Is this going to explode?”

“Emotionally? Possibly. Physically? Probably not.”

I laugh—genuinely this time—and take the box, sitting on the arm of the couch while he sheds the jacket and drops onto the cushions like he belongs here. The paper falls away easily, revealing a small charm bracelet—silver, simple, with one charm: a tiny raindrop made of carved sea glass. It twinkles faintly in the light, seafoam green like my eyes. Like he sees me better than I ever let him.

“I saw it in this weird shop downtown,” he says quickly, like he’s nervous. “I just… it made me think of you.”

The charm is beautiful, and I mean it when I say, “Thank you, Ash. It’s perfect.”

When I look up, he’s staring. Not in a creepy way. Just... focused. Like something about me looks different today. “What?” I ask, tilting my head.

He blinks, as if coming out of a trance. “You’re just… glowing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure that’s just sweat and pancake guilt.”

He laughs under his breath, but doesn’t look away. “No, I mean it. You look... different. Like something finally settled inside you.”

That gets me. Right in the sternum. His words resonate deep within me, and I feel a strange sense of peace wash over me. He steps forward, his hand brushing against mine, fingers linking like it’s nothing new—like we’ve been doing this forever. Then he leans in and kisses me again. It’s soft and intimate, a kiss that says he knows me—not just the parts I show the world, but the quiet ones underneath.

And then— BOOM. Thunder cracks loud enough to shake the windows, and we jump apart. I instinctively glance at the sky through the living room window, my heart pounding in my chest.

“It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” Ash says, frowning, his brow furrowed in confusion.

I step closer, hand still warm where he touched me, and look out the window. Outside, the sky is clear. Except—rain. Falling in a perfect circle. Just our yard. Nowhere else. Ash doesn’t say anything, but he moves a little closer, like something in the air just shifted and he felt it deep in his bones. And I… I can’t look away. Because I’ve seen this before. In a field that doesn’t exist. In a dream that wasn’t just a dream.

The rain stops as abruptly as it started, as if an unseen hand has turned off a faucet. The sudden silence is deafening, the air thick with moisture and the scent of petrichor.

Ash walks me to school, his presence a comforting constant in the wake of the strange morning I’ve experienced. He’s that guy—the jacket-off-your-shoulders, walk-on-the-outside-of-the-sidewalk type. The kind who means every goodnight text he sends. I lean into his familiarity, trying to anchor myself in the normalcy of his presence.

He doesn’t mention the storm again. Neither do I. We walk past puddles that only exist on our street, and I try not to look back over my shoulder. By the time I slide into my usual spot in the back of first period, I’ve almost convinced myself that everything is fine.

And then Sabrina drops into the seat next to mine, her presence as vibrant and attention-grabbing as ever. She’s a vision of confidence and style, her curls bouncing as she moves, her eyes sharp and assessing. She takes one look at me and narrows her eyes, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

“What’s with the vibe?” she asks, her voice a low purr.

I blink, taken aback. “The vibe?"

“You look like you got struck by lightning and liked it.”

I scoff. "Good morning to you, too.”

She tosses her curls and kicks her legs up onto the chair in front of her, reclaiming her territory with the ease of a queen. “Don’t play innocent. Ash picked you up in that shirt—” she points at the fitted black one I now realize is more form-fitting than I remembered “—and your aura is giving ‘freshly kissed and maybe hexed.’ Spill.”

I snort, trying to play it cool. “There’s nothing to spill.”

“Liar,” she retorts, her eyes sparkling with amusement and curiosity.

“Okay, there was a weird moment. Just… rain. That’s all.”

“Rain is weird?”

“In my front yard."

"I'm still waiting for the weird part." She says, lifting one eyebrow.

"Only in our yard, and there was thunder, and the sky was clear.”

She stares at me, her eyebrows lifting incrementally with each additional detail. “Okay, witch,” she finally says, a slow smile spreading across her face.

I groan and drop my head onto the desk, the cool surface a welcome contrast to the heat rising in my cheeks. I want to laugh, but the truth is sticking in my chest like wet cotton. I don’t know how to explain the dream, the way my name was spoken like a prayer, the dying field, and the figure standing at the edge of the trees.

She nudges me gently with her foot. “Are you good?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, the words rolling off my tongue with ease.

She doesn’t believe me. That’s the thing with Sabrina. She lets you lie, but she stores every single one. She’s the friend who’ll call you on them when it matters, not before. The slow burn of accountability.

“Okay. If you say so, Kor,” she says, her voice laced with skepticism. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a skinny envelope, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But I have something for you. Happy birthday, birthday girl.”

Inside the envelope, I find two tickets to the Renaissance Faire that I’ve been talking non-stop about for months. “Sabrina. You did not,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I look up at her, my eyes wide with surprise and gratitude. “Please tell me this second ticket is for you.”

She laughs, a sound like tinkling bells. “Pft. Do you really see Ash going to a Ren Faire?”

I pause, envisioning Ash in tights and a tunic, and we both immediately burst into laughter, the sound filling the classroom and drawing a few disapproving looks from our teacher, Mr. Coffman. He enters the room, demanding our attention and silence, and I immediately sober up, tucking the tickets safely into my bag.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of review packets and senior pranks, the usual end-of-year chaos that seems to lull me into a false sense of security. But there are moments—whispers when I pass under the trees, the way water fountains sputter when I walk by, the sprinklers turning on only when I step onto the lawn—that remind me that something is different. Something has shifted.

And the worst one—fifth period, Bio lab. There’s a wilted rose sitting in the vase near the window, its petals brown and curled, a sad reminder of a flower that has long since given up on life. Until I sit down next to it. And it opens. Just like that. Petals unfurling like it’s been waiting for me, like my presence is the sun it needs to bloom.

Sabrina notices, her pen stilling in mid-air. “Kora,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did you do that?”

I shake my head, my eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even look at it.”

“Girl, are you a witch?” She says it with a quirk of her eyebrow and a small smile, but I can hear the tremor in her voice, the underlying note of uncertainty and awe.

I don’t answer, because maybe I am? Hell, at this point I wouldn't be surprised.

By the time I get home, the storm in my head is louder than the silence in the house. Ash has picked up a shift at the bookstore, and Marley has left a note on the fridge saying she’s out with Devon, that there’s lasagna on the stove if I get hungry. The house is empty, quiet, mine to explore and to hide in.

I drop my bag, head upstairs, and don’t even bother turning on the overhead light in the bathroom. The last of the afternoon sun filters through the frosted window, casting everything in a soft, dusty gold. The tub fills slowly, the sound of water rushing into the porcelain a soothing melody. I dump in a scoop of something Marley bought for me—lavender, eucalyptus, some fancy name that translates to ‘relax or die trying.’

When I finally slide into the water, it’s hot and sweet and perfect, an embrace that seems to seep into my very soul. I sink under once, holding my breath until my ears fill with the gentle roar of nothingness. When I come back up, I rest my head on the edge of the tub and stare at the ripples, letting the water work its magic, trying to wash away the strangeness of the day.

I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s ridiculous. But… I stretch out my hand, hovering it just above the surface, fingers spread, palm warm. “Okay, Kora,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Let’s try some Jedi magic bullshit.”

The water doesn’t move. Of course it doesn’t. I plop my arm back into the water and let out a huff, the sound echoing in the small bathroom. I lift both my arms this time, hands still above the water, willing it to move, to respond to me.

And for one perfect second—one breathless heartbeat—a tiny wave shifts toward me.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as the air around me shifts, the candle flame flickers, and everything seems to hold its breath, waiting. And then—

Knock knock knock.

The sound is steady and slow, a rhythm that seems to echo the beating of my heart. I bolt upright, water sloshing around me and over the edge of the bathtub, the sudden movement sending a small tsunami onto the floor. The knock comes again, insistent and unyielding.

I quietly leave the water, grabbing my towel, my heart hammering in my chest as I pad barefoot to the top of the stairs, still dripping. The door waits below like a mouth holding its breath. Was it Ash? He doesn’t knock like that. Marley doesn’t knock at all; she has a key.

I grab my keychain, fumbling for my mace, and tiptoe down the stairs, my heart pounding in my ears. “Who is it?” I yell out, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Kora, please open the door.”

And I opened it. Why? I’m not sure, but my body just… listened. And he’s standing there. Long red hair like blood in the fading light of day, half-tucked behind his ear, eyes the color of amber melting into gold. A smirk that isn’t born from amusement but from knowing, from a secret shared between us that I don’t yet understand.

He stands like the storm is his to command, like my dream wasn’t just a dream, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Hi, Kora,” he says, his voice like smoke and the summer heat in Europe. “Took you long enough to wake up.”