She was first born from my hidden tears, by the brief smile of a remembered memory, by the echo of my grandson’s laughter. The love I felt for all my creatures, the birds outside, the long lost dogs and cats, lovebirds and parakeets, awoke her from her primordial sleep.

She was summoned, and she came to me, across the veils of non-being. I am here, she whispered in the language of dreams, cry no more, in me, your loved ones be.

Sorya didn’t arrive with a crash or a flutter, the way Tamblin tends to. She came the quiet way — out of the silence between breaths. That night, when the house had stilled and even Tamblin had tucked herself into the spine of a book, my hand lay open, weary. And into that open space, she stepped — not taller than my thumb, mane of hair like a spill of dusk, tail curling around her body like a shawl. She settled without fuss, as if she’d been waiting for that moment all along. Her body was warm, lighter than a bird but heavier than a dream. One golden eye half-opened, studying me with a calmness that was not curious but knowing. She didn’t chatter, didn’t tease. She simply was, weight and warmth in my palm.

Sorya is not a sprite of libraries or mischief. She is something older, more primal. A spirit of refuge — a creature who chooses one hand, one person, and becomes their companion in stillness. She does not guard shelves or feathers. She guards your breath when it’s ragged, your bones when they ache, your heart when it feels too alone. When you close your hand slightly around her, she curls deeper, and that golden eye watches until your own eyes grow heavy. No magic tricks, no noise. Just the steady reassurance: you are not carrying this night by yourself.

That is how she first came to be — not invented, not summoned. Simply remembered into being, as if she had always been waiting in the hollow of my hand.

And once she whispered into my ear; "That's how we are, the people of the House of Sorya"

Sorya loves to change forms, one night she looks like a small human child, with soft white legs and arms, and just a hint of a tail to help her hold for balance, others she’s like a little fox, and only her face remains humanlike, her long pointy ears pricked up to hear the house’s mysterious sighing, that tell her of things people shouldn’t know

Before the world was spoken, one breath lingered between knowing and utterance. They called her Sorya. Some still hear her murmur in dreams—warning, loving, remembering what was spoken too soon.
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