Whitefish River What did you have left to lose?

vague reply is vague

With the help of the healer, her physical wounds had healed well enough; scabbed over and knitted together, bruises faded beneath her pelt. It was her mind that hurt the most, and for the first few days thinking had been hard, remembering harder still. And so, she did not remember. She did not dare cross the borders she'd placed in her mind, dared not think of it and him. The source of her security had become suffocating, suddenly, and she'd simply unfurled herself and slipped away, followed the sounds of the river. 

The harsh angles of her body had returned, carved there by her empty stomach. She craved the burn of the springs, but remembered the cold that came after painfully. She picked her way along the wet stones, stopping only when her gaze traced the ghost. She stood motionless, fragile, as if a gust could tear her into wisps of fog. Anatha's hackles prickled, then lay flat, waiting for the next gust of wind. It came in a moment, pushing through her fur, and yet the ghost did not dissipate.