The monastery stood like a living portal, nestled within the embrace of towering redwoods that reached endlessly skyward. It wasn’t just a place—it was a convergence of energy, a meeting ground between dimensions. Scattered across the property and temple were the Garuda Maruda statues, their whimsical forms almost alive with motion. They didn’t resemble conventional birds; instead, they were long, flowing, abstract figures with exaggerated, wavy crests that stretched upward as though connecting earth to sky. Their curves were impossibly fluid, their shapes more like waves of energy than solid beings.

The first time I sat before them, something shifted. It wasn’t immediate—it was subtle, a faint hum in the air that I couldn’t yet name. But as I stared at the statues, their forms began to reveal their purpose. They were more than carvings. They were conduits, anchors for an energetic field that expanded far beyond the physical. Their gold and blue paint glinted in the light, sending subtle pulses upward, intertwining with the energy of the redwoods. Together, they created a latticework, an invisible network of power that connected everything around me.

I sat cross-legged in the grass, closing my eyes and steadying my breath, letting the hum of this energy surround me. With each moment, the air grew thicker, vibrating with a resonance that seemed to pierce through the physical. And then it happened—the veil appeared. At first, it was just a shimmer, like heat waves on a distant horizon. But the more I focused, the clearer it became. It wasn’t just a shimmer; it was a window, a glimpse into another dimension. Through it, I saw a holographic reality—fleeting images of a world not entirely separate from this one, yet layered over it like a second skin. I knew that this was a portal, an opening where the two dimensions touched. It was the kind of place where beings could cross over, where energies could mingle and manifest.

I meditated there for days, my senses attuning to the field, my third eye stretching open to perceive more of what lay beyond. It was during this time that the bird came to me. Its first cry echoed in the distance, breaking the stillness of the forest with a sound that carried deep sorrow. It was a wail, a raw expression of yearning that climbed high into the air before descending into a low, aching sigh. I felt its pain as though it were my own, and instinctively, I responded. My voice was tentative at first, mirroring its tone and rhythm, sending my own emotion into the frequencies.

Over time, the bird and I developed a language. I learned to weave reassurance into my tones, pushing emotions upward and letting them cascade down like ripples in water. Each note became a message, a way of telling the bird that it wasn’t alone. And the bird responded, its cries becoming less mournful, more curious. Each night it came closer, drawn to the energy we were building together, until finally, it was right outside my window. I could feel it, even if I couldn’t see it—its presence was like a brush of warm air, its energy tangible and alive.

And then Griffin came. I had been waiting for him, yearning for the connection I thought we still shared. But when he arrived, it wasn’t the reunion I had dreamed of. He was cold, distant, barely looking at me as he dropped off my belongings and left without a word. The weight of his indifference was unbearable. It felt like a piece of myself had been ripped away, leaving me hollow. I couldn’t stay in the cabin—I needed to escape, to run, to lose myself in the forest where the trees could hold my pain.

I ran until I couldn’t anymore, my sobs wracking my body as I stumbled through the undergrowth. Finally, I collapsed in a clearing, the damp earth cold against my knees. And there, in the moonlight, I saw them—feathers scattered across the ground, their blue sheen glowing faintly in the pale light. My breath caught, and I whispered, “Alien, are you dead?”

The sight of the feathers mirrored the death I felt inside. In that moment, I realized my love for Griffin was gone, as irretrievable as the life that had left the bird. I cried louder, my sorrow spilling into the night, but there was a strange comfort in the feathers, as though they carried a message I couldn’t yet understand. They reminded me of the bird, of the connection we had built, and I realized that even in loss, there was beauty. Even in death, there was something that lingered.

The bird disappeared after that. For weeks, its absence was a quiet ache, a hollow space in the nights. I thought it was gone forever—taken by whatever force had scattered the feathers. But then, one night, I woke to the sound of scratching on the roof of my cabin. It was faint at first, but insistent, and it was accompanied by a sound I hadn’t heard in weeks. The bird’s cry.

I stepped outside, my breath fogging in the cold night air, and called to it. “Alien, is that you?” It answered, its tone bright and alive, and I felt its energy brush against mine. It had grown. The being that had once cried out in sorrow had returned, taller now, strong enough to scratch the top of my cabin while still standing on the ground. It walked on my porch, its steps deliberate, its presence so close I could almost touch it. I knew it had come to say goodbye.

This bird was not just a bird. It was an interdimensional being, a manifestation of the energy field created by the Garuda Maruda and the redwoods. It had come through the portal I had glimpsed, its presence tied to the latticework of energy that stretched between dimensions. It wasn’t entirely physical—its form flickered between the seen and unseen—but its song, its frequency, was as real as my own breath.

As I prepare to leave the monastery, I carry this connection with me. The statues, the energy field, the feathers, and the bird—they are all part of the same tapestry, a story woven through loss and healing, through song and silence, through the veils that separate us from the worlds just beyond our sight.