Lion Head Mesa Hate [m]e baby, maybe I'm a piece of art

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Sleep is overrated, Melody had said. In time, she would learn to regret it.

The girl was weeping, and she did not know why. She'd picked a hidden spot where she was sure no one would find her; the tears had started suddenly and refused to stop, and Melody did not want to be seen like this. She wanted to be seen — well, as a Hemet. Not a servant, not a noble — a priestess, as she was meant to be. She was certain that crying had no place in it.

But she could not seem to stop. Melody wiped at her eyes and found it futile, sniffling a little indignantly to herself.