Phase One

The first time I saw her, she was standing at the far end of the paddock, half in shadow, her head low, but her ears tipped slightly forward. She didn’t whinny or toss her head like some horses do when they’re nervous. No, this mare was quiet.. too quiet. A silence born not of calm, but of years spent learning that making noise brought nothing good.

She was smaller than I’d imagined, her frame thin and hollowed, hips jutting sharply, spine like a ridge of rocks beneath her spotted coat. Her coloring was still striking, glowing white with spots of blue, just dulled under layers of dust and grime. Small sores peppered her face where a halter had rubbed too long. Her hooves reeked of thrush, black goo crusting the frog. Even with all that, there was hope in her eyes.

“She’s been a broodmare most of her life,” the man muttered as he passed me her lead rope. “No name that we know of. Never really had one, I guess.”

She took one hesitant step onto the trailer ramp, then froze. I didn’t pull. I just stood there, hand light on the rope, letting the warm breeze do its part. After a moment, she stepped down again- slow, careful, like the ground might fall out from under her.

Once at our barn, the team watched as I led her into the quarantine paddock. “Poor girl,” someone whispered. “Look at her feet.” She flinched at their voices and pressed her body close to the wall of the passing stalls, eyes wide and rimmed with white. But when I knelt down, not too close, and set a bucket of soaked hay cubes just within reach, she looked at me—not with fear exactly, but uncertainty. Curiosity flickered in those blue eyes again.

As I watched her try not to doze off in the afternoon sun, her ribs slowly rising and falling, I couldn’t help but imagine her in another life—strong, well-fed, her coat gleaming, standing in a lush pasture while her foals played around her legs. Maybe she’d nuzzle them gently, ears flicking as they raced past, her eyes soft and full of something she never got to keep for long: peace. I hoped that, one day, she'd feel safe enough here to dream of that too.

That first night, she didn’t eat much. She watched us warily, muscles trembling at every sudden movement. But the next morning, she nickered.. barely a sound, more breath than voice, when I brought her feed.

We still didn’t know what to call her. But there, in the stillness of the barn, while flies buzzed lazily and the other horses dozed, I thought of something.

“Maybe Lumen,” I said aloud. “For the light that’s still in you.”

She didn’t respond, not exactly. But as I turned to leave, I heard her take a step toward the bucket. Just one.

It was enough.