Blissful Mornings - The Ones Who Sit Beside Her

It began with a scent.

Not strong. Not perfumed. But soft—like something remembered.

She looked up from her stitching. The cottage was still. The windows closed against the

summer light. Yet something had shifted.

A breeze that had no source danced across her lap.

She inhaled.

Jasmine. And maybe… ylang ylang.

The kind of scent that clings to the fabric of older women—those who rubbed oils into their

hands before cooking, who picked flowers at dawn, who anointed wounds and wove

lullabies.

The girl smiled.

She reached for a square of cloth in her basket. A forgotten piece. Frayed at the edges. It

bore the faint shape of a tea stain—an accident from a meal long gone.

But today… it looked like a flower.

She began to stitch around it—tracing its edges, honoring its shape without correcting it.

Her fingers knew just where to begin. No pattern. No voice guiding her. Just presence.

The scent lingered.

She closed her eyes, letting her hands take the lead. The threads slipped between her

fingers as if someone else held the other end.

She outlined the petals. Then the stem. Then… without planning to… she began to

embroider jasmine blossoms. Tiny. Delicate. Radiant.

It wasn’t something she knew how to do. And yet, her hands knew. As if they were

remembering for her.

She didn’t see anyone. She didn’t need to.

But she felt them. The ones who had sat in this cottage before her. The ones who had

stitched, sung, bled, and blessed.

They didn’t speak. They simply sat beside her.

And she stitched—not because she was taught, but because she was being guided.

Just as she finished the final petal, her eyes drifted to the corner of her basket.

There—tucked neatly where she had placed it days ago—was her first creation: the pale

blue cloth with the pearl stitched in the center.

She had almost forgotten.

She picked it up gently, holding it beside the tea-stained jasmine bloom. Two pieces. Two

moments. One whispered of the sea. The other of the land.

She threaded her needle once more.

With quiet care, she began to stitch them together—joining the pearl’s soft glow to the

delicate threads of the jasmine flower.

Like tide meeting soil. Like memory embracing moment. Like blessing meeting breath.

She didn’t know what she was making. She only knew… it felt like truth.

And maybe… that was the real teaching.

Not to finish something. But to feel how it all connects.

-Bliss Chains Authors