Lyra
At exactly 11 am, three hours after leaving home, the car slowed in front of a tall iron gate with a wooden sign beside it that read—
HAPPY PARENTS RETREAT - ASHVILLE PACK.
The irony.
We drove in.
The place was quite large, with wide grounds and dozens of cabins scattered around. Laughter carried in the air as children ran across the open fields and their parents followed, some smiling, some tense, and some with that hollow look I was probably wearing.
The car rolled to a stop in front of a cabin. The council elder, I’d forgotten her name, stood waiting at the entrance.
“Right on time,” she said as I climbed out.
“Elder—“
“Seraphine.” She completed, instantly catching on to the fact that I had forgotten her name. I felt a little embarrassed and forced a small smile to cov
