Asoka.
That was her name—or rather, the name her mother had given her, she had learned that the woman had disappeared the night after she was born, and that she herself, swaddled in old linen, had been found at the crossroads leading to their neighbor's barn. The elders had given her a guardian, whom she had called her father for many years before he passed.
He had brought with him her younger sister, whom he claimed as his own. Asoka was a year older than her sister, Elowen, and the only memory she had of her was the emptiness her death had left—which had been ten years ago. Ever since, she had lived alone, managing the small shop until it was taken from her—the only thing her father had owned, to some extent.
The shop had been modest, a timber-framed building with a bell over the door that jingled whenever a customer entered. Its shelves held jars of grains, herbs, and preserved foods, alongside scraps of fabric and tools that villagers occasionally needed. Maintaining it had not been easy; her father had taught her everything he could before he died, but she had learned most by herself, through long days of trial and error.
Each morning, she rose before dawn. She carried water from the well, tended the small garden behind the building, and worked in the few remaining fields that her father had once cultivated. Plowing, sowing, gathering harvests, and tending livestock became a rhythm she could not escape. Even as her muscles ached and her hands blistered, she reminded herself why she worked so hard: the shop was more than a livelihood; it was a foothold in a world that afforded women so few opportunities. In her village, girls were expected to marry at sixteen, to bear children, and to care for hearth and home.
To hold a small property, to run a business, or to dream beyond the domestic sphere was unusual, sometimes whispered about, and almost never encouraged.
Yet Asoka dreamed. She imagined traveling beyond the hills, beyond the fields and forests that enclosed her life, to towns and markets she had never seen. She pictured herself walking along bustling streets, free from the rules that bound her in this countryside, where men's authority dictated every choice and women were measured only by their ability to serve, marry, and bear children. In her imagination, the roads led to rivers and open skies, and there she would be more than the sum of her obligations.
These dreams were fragile, but they were hers, and she nurtured them with the same care she gave the garden and shop.
Her days were long and relentless. She woke with the sun, and only the fading light of evening allowed her rest. She baked bread for the few customers who came from distant farms, repaired broken tools, and meticulously kept the shop's accounts. Every action, every careful decision, was a step toward a future she might one day seize.
Even the small savings she could gather from her sales were precious, a secret treasure that represented the freedom she longed for.
The settlement itself had changed over the years.
Roads were sturdier, bridges spanned the creek, and the church oversaw many improvements, providing materials and guidance for building larger homes and communal spaces. Villagers worked hard to maintain their plots, paying their tithe—a portion of crops or income—to the church in acknowledgment of its authority. Yet even as the settlement prospered, the lives of women remained circumscribed.
They were confined to the house or the hearth, their education limited, their choices dictated by the authority. Asoka, in her solitude, could not ignore the contrast between her own determination and the narrow expectations placed on women around her.
Sometimes, while tending the garden or stacking jars in the shop, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to step beyond these fields. To feel the wind on her face, to hear the laughter of people who did not question a woman's worth or so she thought, to see the world as something vast and alive rather than as a place measured in duties and restrictions. Her hands, hardened from work, carried more than the weight of soil and tools—they carried her hopes, her ambitions, and her quiet defiance against a life prescribed before she had even grown old enough to speak.
Asoka had no illusions that her dreams would come easily. Travel for a young woman alone was nearly impossible, and society was quick to place limits on women's lives. Yet she persisted. Day by day, seed by seed, coin by coin, she labored toward a freedom she had never known. In the rhythm of work and the silence of her thoughts, she found a stubborn courage: that even if the world refused to recognize her potential, she could still prepare herself, ready for the day when her dreams might finally carry her beyond the hills.