CHAPTER 6:The Healer Who Never Believed

There was a time when Amara could feel life itself.

She could touch a person's wrist and sense the rhythm of their body—the strength of their heart, the hidden wounds beneath their skin. She wasn't just a healer; she was a miracle. A child prodigy in medicine, a doctor by twenty-five, a legend in whispers.

But legends don't last forever.Now, she worked at a quiet pharmacy in a town where no one knew her name. She counted pills, filled prescriptions, and gave out generic advice with a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

She no longer healed.

She refused to heal.

Because the last time she tried… she had failed.

The Wound That Never Healed

The boy's name was Micah. Seven years old. Brown eyes too big for his face, always running around with scraped knees and a wild grin. The kind of child who made the world feel brighter.

When they brought him to her, limp and barely breathing, Amara knew something was wrong before the tests confirmed it. His body was shutting down. No reason. No cause. Just… slipping away.

She had done everything.

Traditional medicine. Holistic remedies. The other kind of healing—the one that had made her famous in hidden circles. The one she never spoke about.

Nothing worked.

He died on a Thursday.

And with him, something inside her broke

A Life Of Runninng

After that, Amara walked away from it all. The hospitals. The whispered legends of the "woman who could heal with a touch." The endless people who expected her to be a miracle.

She didn't want to be a miracle.

She wanted to be normal.

And for five years, she almost convinced herself she was.

Then, one evening, while closing up the pharmacy, a very rude old woman threw a mango at her head.

The Call Comes in the Most Annoying Way Possible (Again)

The mango hit her shoulder instead, because Amara had decent reflexes. She turned, fully prepared to cuss someone out, only to find a tiny, wrinkled woman with sharp eyes and the kind of presence that demanded attention.

"You need to leave," the old woman said.

Amara blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The temple is calling."

Amara sighed. "Look, if you're lost, I can—"

Another mango came flying. This time, Amara dodged. "Lady, if you throw one more fruit at me, I swear—"

"You are needed." The old woman's voice dropped, deeper than it should have been. The air around her shifted, thick with something ancient and undeniable.

Amara felt it before she understood it.

The same way she used to feel sickness before it manifested. The same way she had felt Micah slipping away before the machines confirmed it.

A pull.

A call.

She clenched her fists. No.

She was done with this.

But that night, her dreams were different. The same temple. The same mist. The same whisper.

"It wasn't your fault."

Amara woke up with a sharp breath, heart pounding.

She sat there for a long time.

Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of five years, she packed a bag.

"If this is another mistake," she muttered, "at least no one can throw fruit at me in the mountains."

And just like that, the healer who no longer believed set off toward the place that had never forgotten her.