Blissful Mornings - The Book on the Altar

The child did not mean to find the book.

She had returned to the swaddle cottage alone, her thoughts still brushing the memory of

the golden-haired boy and the arrow-shaped stick. Something about him lingered—not just

his face, but the feeling of recognition without reason.

She stepped into the cottage, expecting stillness.

But a faint breeze stirred the edge of the altar cloth. And resting there, just beneath the

fold—a book.

It was old. Worn at the corners. Wrapped in cloth that smelled of salt and sunlight.

She opened it slowly.

The pages were filled with maps, drawings, words in faded ink. And one name kept

appearing—Magellan.

She read what she could. An expedition. A battle. An island. An arrow… to the neck.

She closed the book, breath caught.

The next morning, she returned to the swaddle cottage—this time, not alone.

Julia was already there, setting warm tea in earthen cups. Sonia hummed as she folded a

cloth into the shape of a spiral. Lani sat quietly, decorating a ceramic vase with frangipanis

she had gathered at dawn.

The child approached, book in hand.

She didn’t ask for permission to speak. She only placed the book on the center mat.

The circle quieted.

She looked at Julia first. “Who was he?”

Julia’s eyes softened. “A man from the sea. A conqueror to some, a question to others.”

“He died here,” the child said quietly. “Why?”

Sonia answered next. “Because our ancestors loved this land. Enough to protect it with their

lives. They did not understand his purpose… and he did not understand theirs.”

The child looked down at the page—a drawing of a ship, a spear, a coastline.

“So who was right?”

The silence was long.

Lani’s voice finally rose, gentle as her hands arranging blossoms. “Maybe no one. Maybe

everyone. Maybe the land remembers what the heart cannot.”

She placed a final frangipani in the vase—its stem firm, its petals white with a blush of pink.

And for a quiet moment, it resembled a stake.

An arrow reimagined. Not to wound—but to witness.

The child watched the vase as if it held an answer she didn’t yet have words for.

And though the circle did not speak again, it did not close around her.

It opened.

-Bliss Chains Authors