Whitebark Stream i'll take the sweat from your palms,

Words against her tongue that she could not free. Not yet. Not, at least, until he was done speaking.

How the children would stay at Sequioa's side and they had been put on meat. A thanks given to her that almost felt like it shouldn't have. Still manners gripped her.

You're welcome. Soft but as free flowing as the stream.

A pause as she collected herself and her breathing.

Tell me of them, Mahler.

Perhaps because her heart was overwhelmed when she thought of children without a mother. Perhaps because of her own delicate dance around the chance of motherhood this year.