The Light Within Part 1: A Bedtime Story
by Sally Clough
Hello, beloveds. Tonight's offering is a story that follows Imogen, a quiet girl born with rare magical abilities that allow her to sense pain in others and heal wounds seen and unseen. A loving soul, Imogen learns to use her powers selflessly to help the people in her struggling village—mending broken bones, soothing fearful children, and bringing hope during dark times. This is part one of a three-part story. I hope you sleep well, dear ones. Music is generously provided by Nature's Eye. Thank you for listening beloveds.
Transcript
Hello dear ones and welcome to today's story.
A story I wrote called The Light Within.
Before we begin just taking a few moments to settle into the space.
Make yourself all nice and comfortable.
Snuggle down into your bed.
Maybe take a few long stretches.
Allow your body to sink heavily into your bed or your chair.
Maybe taking a few deeper,
Longer breaths in and out.
And now you are more comfortable.
We shall begin.
Chapter One Imogen had always known she was different.
Though she couldn't explain how.
To her neighbors in the quiet village of Alderwood,
She was simply the quiet girl with the soft brown hair who lived with her mother in a cottage on the hill.
She helped gather herbs for medicine,
Carried buckets of water from the well,
And sang while she worked.
She never sought attention,
And few gave her more than a passing thought.
But behind her gentle eyes lived a secret.
When Imogen was six,
She discovered it by accident.
She had been helping her mother in the garden when she brushed her fingers across a drooping rose.
To her astonishment,
The petals straightened,
Rich color rushing back into them,
As though they had drunk deep from an invisible spring.
Her mother gasped but said nothing,
Only pulling her clothes.
Never show anyone,
Imogen,
She whispered.
The world doesn't always understand what it cannot explain.
And so Imogen kept her gift hidden.
Years passed,
And her abilities deepened.
If her mother fell ill,
Imogen's touch called the fever.
When storms frightened her,
She could whisper to the sky,
And the thunder would roll away,
Leaving only a soft rain.
At times,
She wondered if she was imagining it all.
But deep inside,
She knew her power was real.
Still,
A question stirred in her heart,
Growing louder with each passing year.
Why was she given this gift?
On the night of her thirteenth birthday,
She stood at her bedroom window,
Gazing out at the rain-soaked village.
The lanterns in the square glowed faintly,
Their reflections dancing on the cobblestones.
She pressed her palms together and whispered to the night.
I don't want to hide forever.
If I have this gift,
Let it be for something good.
Let me help.
As if in answer,
Lightning split the sky,
Illuminating the world in silver for a heartbeat.
The air thrummed,
And Imogen's heart pounded with a strange certainty.
Something had changed.
Chapter Two The next morning,
Imogen descended the hill into the village.
Mist clung to the rooftops,
And the air smelled of wet earth.
She carried a basket of herbs for the healer,
As she often did.
But her thoughts lingered on her wish from the night before.
By the fountain,
She saw him.
A boy,
No older than herself,
Sat hunched on the stone edge,
His clothes torn and his face pale with hunger.
His bare feet were muddy,
And his arms wrapped tightly around his thin frame,
As if he might shatter without them.
Something inside Imogen tugged painfully.
She approached him carefully.
Are you alright?
The boy lifted his head.
His eyes were the grey of storm clouds,
And they darted with suspicion before softening.
I don't have anywhere to go,
He admitted.
My father,
He… His voice cracked,
And he looked away.
Imogen didn't need him to finish.
She could feel his pain radiating like coal through her own bones.
She sat beside him and whispered words only she could understand.
A shimmer of warmth,
Invisible to others,
Wrapped around him like a cloak.
Slowly,
His trembling eased.
The boy stared at her.
What did you do?
Imogen's heart skipped.
Nothing,
She said quickly.
Then,
Soften.
Sometimes,
People just need someone to sit with them.
For the first time,
He managed a small smile.
She learned his name was Ciarán.
His mother had died the year before,
And his father,
Drowning in grief,
Had turned harsh and angry.
The night before,
Ciarán had run away,
Too afraid to return.
Imogen listened quietly,
Her heart aching for him.
She guided him to the baker's shop,
Where the scent of fresh bread filled the air.
She slipped a small pouch of coins,
Her own savings,
Onto the counter while the baker's back was turned.
When the man handed Ciarán a warm loaf and a bowl of soup,
Ciarán's eyes widened.
You don't have to do this,
He whispered.
Imogen smiled gently.
Everyone deserves kindness.
He ate in silence,
Though every so often his gaze flickered toward her with something like wonder.
By the time she left him,
Ciarán's cheeks had color again,
And he stood a little taller.
Imogen walked back up the hill,
Her basket swinging at her side.
And for the first time in her life,
She felt the spark of her gift burning brighter.
Maybe,
Just maybe,
This was only the beginning.
Chapter Three Life in Alderwood always moved slowly,
Like the river that wound its way past the mill.
People knew each other's names,
Each other's stories,
And most importantly,
Each other's business.
Whispers traveled faster than the wind through the trees,
And lately the whispers were about miracles.
Old Marta,
The seamstress,
Swore her fading eyesight had sharpened overnight.
She'd gone to bed nearly blind,
And awoken to find the world clear again.
Thomas,
The farmer at the southern edge of the village,
Claimed his wheat had risen tall and golden after weeks of withering.
Even the blacksmith muttered of his injured hand healing quicker than nature allowed.
Blessings,
Some said,
Crossing themselves or giving thanks to the sky.
Witchcraft,
Others hissed,
Narrowing their eyes.
Imogen heard the murmurs whenever she walked through the square.
She kept her gaze lowered,
Basket clutched tight to her chest.
But she could feel the weight of suspicion pressing against her back.
Though no one dared accuse her directly,
She knew in her heart that the rumors pointed toward her.
Still,
She did not stop helping.
At night,
She slipped quietly to the homes of the sick,
Laying her hands on fevered brows.
She whispered to the earth to coax crops back to life,
Careful that no one saw her.
Each act of kindness filled her with warmth,
Yet also left her trembling with fear of discovery.
It was only a matter of time before someone began to watch.
That someone was Corvin.
Corvin lived in a crumbling stone house at the edge of the village,
Where weeds tangled through broken shutters and the garden lay abandoned.
Once he had been a carpenter with a bustling workshop,
A wife who sang while she cooked,
And a daughter who skipped through the square with ribbons in her hair.
Then came the fire.
A lantern had been knocked over in the night,
Flames devouring his workshop and spreading to his home.
By the time the villagers arrived,
It was too late.
His wife and child were gone,
His livelihood reduced to ash.
Since then,
Corvin's heart had grown as blackened as the beams that still jutted like broken bones from the ruins.
So when whispers of miracles began,
Corvin sneered.
Look!
Nonsense.
Someone's playing tricks.
Someone is trying to make fools of us all.
He took to sitting near the fountain with narrowed eyes,
Watching every passerby.
His gaze often lingered on Imogen,
The quiet girl with her basket of herbs and her soft step.
She was too gentle,
Too quiet,
Almost as if she had something to hide.
One evening,
As the sun dipped low and shadows stretched long across the cobblestones,
He muttered to himself,
I'll find the truth,
And when I do,
They'll see she is no savior.
Meanwhile,
Imogen walked home with Ciaran beside her.
He had begun meeting her each morning since the day she'd given him bread.
Though still wary of the world,
He followed her like a shadow,
Carrying her baskets or telling her stories he half made up.
You know,
He said that evening,
Kicking at a loose stone in the road.
People are saying strange things.
They think there's magic here.
Imogen's heart skipped.
Do you believe that?
Ciaran shrugged.
I believe someone's helping,
And I think it's you.
Imogen froze.
His eyes met hers,
Steady,
Curious,
Not accusing.
For the first time,
Someone had spoken aloud what she had feared.
She whispered,
If it were true,
Would you be afraid of me?
Ciaran shook his head.
No.
You gave me warmth when I thought I'd freeze.
You gave me food when I was starving.
That's not something to fear.
That's something to be grateful for.
The setting sun painted his face in gold.
Imogen smiled faintly,
Though her stomach still fluttered with worry.
Behind them,
Hidden in the shadows of a doorway,
Corvan watched.
His eyes narrowed further,
Like a blade being honed.
So it is her,
He whispered to himself.
And the darkness in his heart deepened.
