There was once a girl who smelled of strawberries.
Not just the scent of fruit, but of warmth and sunlight, of sweetness and something wild. It clung to her like a secret whispered by the wind, a fragrance that turned heads and left people wondering.
Her name was Maribelle, and she was not like other children.
She lived on the edge of Everfrost Hollow, a small village nestled between golden wheat fields and the dark line of an ancient forest. The people of Everfrost were simple folk, hardened by the rhythm of the seasons. They tilled the land, raised their cattle, and lived by the laws of nature. But even in such a grounded place, they knew magic was real.
And Maribelle, though she did not fully understand why, was proof of it.
She had arrived in Everfrost as an infant, found swaddled in a blanket of red-and-white checkered fabric at the edge of a strawberry patch. The old woman who found her, Mistress Elira, took her in without hesitation, raising her as her own.
But the village never quite accepted her.
Not completely.
She was different. And in Everfrost, different was not always welcome.
Maribelle never seemed to grow like the other children.
While the village girls outgrew their dresses and shed their childhood softness, Maribelle remained untouched by time. Her face held the same youthful glow, her limbs the same delicate frame.
At first, people dismissed it.
Then the whispers began.
“She never changes.”
“She should be a woman by now, and yet she’s still a girl.”
“She’s not natural.”
But for every wary glance, there was also wonder.
The baker’s wife swore Maribelle’s touch could coax sickly plants back to life.
The old herbalist claimed the strawberries from Maribelle’s garden were sweeter than honey and could cure a fever overnight.
Children, though warned to stay away, couldn’t resist her presence. They followed her, mesmerized by the way the wind played with her hair, by how butterflies seemed to land on her fingertips as if drawn by an unseen force.
And then there were the strawberries themselves.
Wherever Maribelle walked, strawberry vines followed.
They grew in places they shouldn’t—between the cracks of stone paths, along the edges of rooftops, even curling over the worn wooden pews of the village chapel.
They were bright, red, and ripe in all seasons, untouched by winter or drought.
It was a blessing.
It was an omen.
And the people of Everfrost did not know which.
But Maribelle did not mind their whispers.
She loved her little home, loved the scent of warm bread wafting from the bakery, loved the quiet laughter of children playing in the fields.
She loved Mistress Elira, the woman who had raised her with gentle hands and a heart strong enough to defy the village’s wariness.
And she loved the strawberries, her silent, faithful companions.
Yet deep in her heart, beneath the sweetness of her simple life, there was a feeling she could not ignore.
A pull. A waiting.
As if the wind whispered something only she could hear.
As if the land beneath her feet was holding its breath.
Something was coming.
And though she did not know what, Maribelle felt it in her bones.
Felt it in the earth.
Felt it in the strawberries.
Something was coming.
And when it arrived, nothing would ever be the same.
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