Moonspear you were never made to fly

Just as swiftly as birth had brought her into the world, Yama had vanished from the eyes of onlookers. She kept to herself since the passing of her parents, residing high atop the mountain; she often gazed out over the land below, wondering what would happen if she, too, fell. Was she high enough that death might claim her? Perhaps then she would see mama and papa again—that was all that she wanted. Would they be happy to see her? Would they be mad? As she thought she remained perched precariously atop the mountain’s ridges, staring blankly at the world below.

Maybe they missed her. Could they miss her? Without consciously noticing it, her brow furrowed, deep in thought. They were dead—could the dead still feel? Were they capable of missing others from when they were alive? She didn’t know and now, with them gone, she felt she had no one to ask. No one to burden with her questions, no one to look up to—they were gone, and she wanted them back.