The Witch's Candelabra

Chapter 16 - Echoes of Dreams

Braids:

The evening with Leon unfolded under the soft glow of fireflies, their tiny lights flickering like stars fallen to earth. We sat sipping tea by the firelight, the warmth chasing away the evening chill. Despite the picturesque setting, I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease, the sense of playing a part in a script I hadn't read.

"No, Braids is not my given name," I found myself saying in response to his inquiry, my voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. "But it's what everyone calls me. It started as a nickname in childhood, owing to my hair always being in two long braids. And now, at 22, here I am, living above my father's pawn shop in a town that feels both familiar and foreign."

Our conversation meandered through trivialities. "How are you?" he asked, the usual politeness in his tone.

"I'm fine, thanks," I replied automatically, though the truth was more complicated. My mind drifted to a response I had never dared to give: "Well, you know, the bees are really starting to get to me – they get tangled in my hair a lot when I sleep on the grass. Buzz."

The evening took an unexpected turn when Leon abruptly stopped and confronted a man who had been trailing us discreetly. It turned out to be a private investigator hired by his brother. Leon's anger was palpable, his frustration with his brother's actions clear. This revelation made me pause – was Leon genuinely not part of his brother's schemes?

Later that night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and symbolism. Vivid images danced in my mind's eye. I imagined myself soaring over the city, black wings carrying me to the countryside, over lush greenery and grand trees, until I reached a serene blue lagoon.

Landing gently by the water's edge, my reflection in the lagoon was nothing but a shadow, the water's depths revealing only a ghostly image. A majestic oryx appeared on the opposite bank, its long, twisting horns and striking throat flap demanding my attention. The animal bent to drink, its movements graceful yet powerful.

The scene shifted from morning to dusk in an instant, casting a golden hue over the lagoon. I watched the oryx drink, its horns bobbing, tail twitching. The symbolism of the oryx – a creature of hope and resilience – was not lost on me, yet its meaning in my dream remained a mystery.

As I drifted off to sleep, the image of the oryx stayed with me, a symbol of something significant yet elusive. In the complexity of my life, where trust was a rare commodity and every encounter a potential game of deception, the oryx stood as a beacon of something purer, a reminder that amidst the shadows and intrigue, there was still room for hope.