Hushed Willows A couple bodies in the garden where the grass grows

The cat had dragged in a chipmunk. Or, in this case, Blossom had made a new friend.
Mae, her name was. Banged up real bad. As time dragged on, he picked up more details: something something Swiftcurrent Creek, lousy father; Reverie had far more context to the situation than he did, given her history, but his heart still sank for the girl — sympathetic. Understanding, even if he did not speak it.
She was useful, often busying herself with tasks he never even would have asked of her; not of someone so young. He wondered often if it was out of thanks to the little blended family, or for her own desires.
He finds her close to the edge of the territory, near the moss and low-hanging willows that bleed into the marsh just northwest of them. Frost tips the grass that still had yet to brown; the scent of snow soon to come is heavy in the air.
You settlin' in alright, kiddo? he calls, pausing just shy of the creekbed as he takes in the scab-covered silhouette. Oh, that must hurt like a bitch. I appreciate it, y'know. You tendin' the borders.