She Walks with Dandelions in her Belly

Meliora rose out of bed slowly; the sun had already cascaded a triangular sunbeam over her bed from the window above. She dragged her feet toward the water basin that sat on her dresser in the far corner of her room and splashed cold water on her face. She grabbed a small, metallic looking-glass out of the first drawer and looked at herself. Her eyes were puffy from crying, a red outline hugged the underside of her bags, her brown-black hair was a wild bird’s nest atop her head, and the wrinkles that plagued her face seemed to have deepened over the last few weeks. She looked at herself and sighed at the woman reflected back. The woman she saw didn’t look half as fragmented as she felt. Her mind started to wander, again, to that frightful night over a fortnight ago. The night she lost her sweet Sol.

Meliora snapped the looking glass closed, ending the journey down that all-too-familiar dark path. She hurried to put her shoes on. Since Sol had been gone, the chores around the farmstead had gone forgotten. Villagers had come to help feed the livestock and tend the fields, but she could not rely on them forever. With Sol gone, Meliora was on her own. And she could not afford to keep wallowing.

Sol had always risen before the sun. He’d feed and tend to the livestock, collect eggs, and muck out the coop. He kept the garden alive, pruning it with love. Every morning he was there, and now he was not. Meliora hadn’t touched many of the chores in years, and though the motions returned like old weathered habits, they stung. It hurt to mimic the very steps she had watched Sol take each day, while she made their morning meal. Now, it was all on her.

Some days she did better than others. But most days, the sorrow consumed her before the chores could be finished—or even begun. She had already lost half the garden and one of the dairy cows. The other cow would need to be traded soon. She owed the church coin for the burial.

The idea of walking into the village twisted her stomach. Facing the townsfolk meant facing the truth—Sol was truly gone. Her soul couldn’t hold that kind of weight.

She had imagined many ends: walking into the river, letting the forest beasts take her, or laying in bed till hunger did. But she never had the nerve. She couldn’t. She had promised Sol she’d stay.

The sickness had come quick. A hoarse cough, the physician said was nothing. Then, days later, her boy was twisted in bed, covered in boils, his once-bright brown eyes unrecognizable. He was in agony. And then, he was gone. Her Sol. Barely twenty-two. Never took a wife. Never stood a chance.

If she had known, she would have gone to the apothecary. She would have begged the witch. Anything. But it had been too late.

She thought of the witch often now. Thought of her when the firewood ran low or when the wind cried harder than she did. Could the witch have saved him? Could she still save Meliora?

That morning, as she slipped on her shoes, Meliora felt something shift. She didn’t care about damnation anymore. She would go. She would ask the witch to bring Sol back—or to take the sorrow instead.

The apothecary was less than a day’s journey north. Meliora moved swiftly, a dairy cow trailing behind her on a frayed lead. She walked the forest path, where birds sang and yellow-white wildflowers peeked from the weeds. The trees whispered to her with every step. The forest, as always, remembered grief.

By dusk, she arrived at a small crooked hut wrapped in ivy. A wooden sign dangled from a low tree branch: Apothecary. Faded paint. A crow sigil. She pressed open the arched oak door.

Inside, she blinked in disbelief. It was far larger than it looked—tall shelves hugged every wall, stacked with old books, curious jars, dried herbs. A tangle of scent hit her: rosemary, iron, rosewater, dust.

She stepped toward the center worktable. At first it seemed empty. But then—a woman turned. Pale skin. Dark ale-colored hair and eyes to match. Her gaze was ancient.

“Good day to ya,” the woman said, voice slow as smoke. “What brings ye to me shop?”

Meliora’s face burned. “Ye’re a witch, are you not? Surely you know of me sorrow.”

The woman gave a small smile. “Witch, healer, crone—folk love their titles. I’m just a keeper of old ways. Now, speak your ache.”

Tears filled Meliora’s eyes. “Me Sol, me son. He’s gone. The black death took ‘im. I can’t bear this grief no more. Ye must take it from me. I can’t go on.”

The woman turned, reached to the third shelf behind her, and plucked a vial. "This be simple magic," she said. “Before even the Greeks, daisies were steeped to soften sorrow, to coax joy from rot. Is that what you seek?”

“Yes,” Meliora sobbed. “I brought a dairy cow—it’s worth fifty coin. Surely that’ll do.”

“It will,” the woman said. “Leave the heifer. Steep the flowers in boiling water. Drink them under night. No more, no less.”

Meliora cradled the vial. It fit easily in her palm. Inside were four perfect flowers—white petals, golden centers, each exactly alike. Unnatural in their flawlessness.

“Ye promise this will help?” she asked.

The woman’s mouth curled again. “The flowers won’t give ye what ye lost. But they’ll help ye remember how to feel something else.”

Meliora nodded, wiping her cheeks.

She slept outside the apothecary that night and left at dawn. The forest no longer felt like a threat. It felt like a guide.

Back home, she set the kettle to boil. She gathered water from the river, lit the fire, and waited. The four flowers floated in the pot like little moons.

She wondered what would come. Would Sol rise from the grave? Would her body be claimed instead? The apotheker hadn’t said.

The kettle sang. She poured the tea—green, slightly glowing—into a clay cup. The scent was wild. Earthy and soft. She drank. Then another. Then all of it.

She barely made it to her bed before sleep took her.

Meliora rose slowly from bed. A triangular sunbeam split the room.

She walked to the basin. Splashed her face. Reached for her looking glass.

But something shimmered. Her reflection caught light differently. Her skin was smooth. The hollows beneath her eyes had softened. She leaned closer.

Then—she saw it.

On her arm, sprouting just below the elbow, was a dandelion. Bright. White and gold. Growing from her like she was soil.

She gasped. Looked down. More flowers—small, delicate—blossomed across her arms, her collarbone, her thighs.

She stared at the bloom on her arm. Without thinking, she plucked it.

And then she laughed.

A deep, rumbling laugh. From her belly. From some hidden well inside her.

She laughed with her eyes crinkled shut. Laughed until her ribs ached. Until flowers fell around her like snow.

She smiled.

And the sorrow left her soul.