Count Only Till Morning

The Woman Who Time Forgot

Long ago, when people still counted days by walking

and seasons by hunger,

they found a woman living alone in the deep forest.

She was young.

Prettier than seemed safe.

Her house was small, made of wood and woven things,

and smoke rose from it only in the evenings.

She welcomed them kindly.

She knew the names of days.

She knew how many sleeps made a season.

She showed them how to scratch marks in bark and stone

so yesterday would not be lost.

The people were grateful.

Children liked her most.

She laughed easily and listened closely.

She said remembering was important

and forgetting was dangerous.

When night came, she would ask for help.

“Just one,” she said.

“To keep me company while I count.”

The first child did not return.

The woman said the child had gone ahead,

learning faster than the others.

She smiled when she said it,

and no one wanted to doubt her.

More children went.

Time passed strangely then.

Some days felt long.

Some felt gone before they began.

At last, the people followed her at night.

They found her by candlelight,

not young at all—

but bent and thin,

her skin loose like old pages.

She was carving symbols into the air,

into the walls,

into the child himself.

The boy was alive.

But time had folded him badly.

His hair was gray in places.

His eyes were too old.

His hands shook as if remembering years

his body had never lived.

The people did not shout.

They did not fight.

They ran.

They left without speaking her name,

because names have a way of calling back.

After that, they warned their children gently.

They said:

Not all teachers mean to keep you whole.

Not all learning gives back what it takes.

And time, once touched,

does not always fit again.

So if you hear someone counting at night,

or feel the hours stretching too thin—

Turn away.

Hold close to those who know your age.

And sleep.

Time can wait until morning.