Blissful Mornings - A Story of Becoming in a Village of Quiet Spring

In a small village nestled in the hills of Switzerland, Mirelle lived above a bakery that woke

the street each day with the scent of cardamom and freshly baked rye. She had been there

for months, maybe longer, passing most days with a quiet routine of painting, walking, and

listening. Not to the world, but to herself.

She had arrived with the snow, silent and withdrawn, unsure if she could re-enter

community again after years of holding more than she could express. And though the

villagers were kind and the pace forgiving, she remained on the edges—attending no

gatherings, declining every invitation with soft apologies and distant smiles.

Until spring began to stir.

It came not in a rush, but in whispers: the sprouting of seeds below her windowsill, the

unfurling of ferns near the footpath, the trickling laughter of melted snow threading

through stone. And in these whispers, something within Mirelle softened too. One morning,

she felt the courage to dress with intention, gather a few of her small pressed-flower

paintings, and walk to the village offering held at the old chapel steps.

It was her first time among them. She did not expect to be noticed.

But as she stood quietly near a stall of handwoven wool, an older woman with soft grey

curls and a quiet strength in her eyes approached. There was something about her—an air

of reverence, of someone who had once held many stories and let them go with grace.

She touched Mirelle’s arm—not abruptly, but as though she already knew the quiet she

carried. “You don’t look different.” she said, her voice like the hush of fresh earth.

“ But you feel different. There’s something softer about your presence. Like a thread has been mended.”

Mirelle felt her breath pause—not from shock, but recognition.

Someone had seen not just her return, but her becoming.

The woman’s name, she later learned, was Ptolemn—a name spoken with respect in the

village, known for tending heirlooms and memory, for honoring what others forgot.

Mirelle realized then, it wasn’t just anyone who had seen her. It was someone who understood the

sacredness of preservation. And healing. In that moment, she saw it too—not just in herself, but in the villagers’ eyes, in their

offerings, in the season’s unfolding. Her healing was not separate from theirs. It was part of

the rhythm of return. To be seen was not a performance. It was a shared reverence.

And that, Mirelle thought, is enough.

-Bliss Chains Authors