Once upon a time…

They said the hills kept faces of saints under the bark, and each spring the village shaved one cedar to read the year ahead. Mara, hair silvering, held the knife this time. She feared the slow dimming in her eyes and the ache in her knees. Her sons were gone to the border garrisons, her loom sat quiet.

The bark split and showed a map of knots leading to the burned monastery, where icons were scraped clean long ago. The elders muttered to leave it. Mara slung bread, a waterskin, and went. She followed goat paths and the whisper of cuckoos, which folk claimed counted your strength instead of your years. The birds fell silent near the ash-black gate.

Inside, a lone fresco shard glowed faintly, a palm that held a tiny nail. Old age spoke to her then, not as a foe but as a toll collector. Pay, or turn back. Mara pressed her needle beside the nail and felt pain leave her hands.

She returned with the shard wrapped in linen. The village shaved the cedar again. The knots formed two hands at work. Mara taught girls to read wood and mend wounds. The cuckoos counted slow.