THE LAND OF SOUR MILK

She stopped speaking. But the dreams never did.

It took a decade of planning.
Against her will.
But aligned, painfully, perfectly, with her yearning to be worthy. To be loved.

They moved.

The language was impossible.
The people, rude.
The climate, punishing.
And yet…she felt like she was home.

They settled in a place that never accepted them. Not really.
She surrounded herself with other outsiders, but even in exile she built walls.
A border inside a border.

She blamed the language. Said it never quite stuck. That her tongue was too soft.
That excuse aged badly, even for her.
So eventually, she stopped speaking at all.

Instead, she dreamed.

Of green hills that made room for her shadow.
Of cool breezes that didn’t shrink away from her voice.
Of people who let her finish a sentence.

She dreamed of belonging.
And cursed herself for believing she ever would.