Bramblepoint migrations

Amid the brambles she found a tiny specimen of mahonia trying to survive; it was only eight or nine inches tall and the buds were tiny yellow things. They did not have any practical application but Sitala had always been interested in the tiny and inconspicuous signs of life—some flowers could be used certainly, such as the poppy or the aconite—yet it was the harmless ones that always looked the most beautiful to her.

The tiny buds upon this plant were nowhere near opening, although their time was past due. The ghost sighed softly and a small puff of air curled from her nostrils, catching on the bladed leaves of the struggling shrub. Sitala shifted away from this plant afterwards and would've focused on another in her effort to pass the time, but a voice rose nearby and made her stop, then lift her head.

How she had not heard the girl coming was a mystery—but alas, the allure of wintering flowers must have been great.

Hello, she responded in kind, her voice a steady and commanding monotone that wasn't in the least bit inviting; one of Sitala's unfortunate flaws. The girl was young but healthy looking, if a bit dull, and reminded her vaguely of a sparrow chirping in the dawn—a necessary annoyance. Still, Sitala did not wish to displease the locals, for that would only hinder her own family.

My apologies—do you live here?
The question seemed innocuous enough.