Momo's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

Momo sat at her corner table in the Murky Mushroom Tavern again, watching creatures talk and laugh together. She'd been coming here for three days now, always sitting alone. Her fingers traced patterns on the worn wood. A server brought her soup without asking—he'd learned her order. That felt like something. Outside the tavern, she noticed a tall clay pot sitting near the entrance. Bright flowers covered its surface, and someone had carved patterns into the clay. The pot hadn't been there yesterday. Momo walked closer and saw how the flowers seemed to reach toward the light. She touched the carved lines gently. Someone had made this and put it here for everyone to see. Not hidden away. Not ashamed of how it looked. The thought made her chest feel tight. She glanced back at the tavern door, then at the pot again. Maybe she could make something too. Something that would sit in a place where creatures gathered, where they could see it without her having to explain herself first. Her hands could create beauty even if her face scared people away. She ran her finger along one more carved line, then headed back toward her home through the cypress trees. Tomorrow she would find clay by the water's edge and start working. She walked past a flowering bush she'd never noticed before. Large pink blooms covered its branches, delicate and full. Momo stopped and tilted her head. The flowers looked different from this angle—darker, almost red in the fading light. She stepped to the side. Now they appeared pale, nearly white. She moved again. The pink returned, bright and clear. Her breath caught. The same flower, showing different faces depending on where she stood. She reached out and touched a petal. Soft against her fingers. The bush didn't change what it was, only how it appeared. Creatures probably saw her differently too, depending on where they stood, what they expected to find. Some saw only her face and ran. Others, like the server at the tavern, saw past it after time. She pulled her hand back and studied the blooms one more time. Making things with her hands could be her way of showing what lived inside her. Clay and flowers and carved patterns—these could speak when her face made words too hard. She smiled and continued toward home, already planning what she would create first.