Chimera Fields pastel ghost

He is looking for food -- those are the extent of his days, an interminable search for the next meal, always the next meal -- but the scents he picks up are all stale. He has never been a good hunter, has always preferred to scavenge for scraps, and he isn't sure why he is making a show out of tracking, holding up a finger to measure the direction of the wind when he doesn't know the difference between a rabbit and a hare and now, two years deep into life, is too afraid to ask.

Instead his nose leads him to a field, which even to his untrained, artless eye, he can tell that it will be beautiful in a few days' time when the flowers come closer to full bloom.

He sees someone about his age from afar, rustling the grass, and looks at her with the smallest thorn of envy lodged in his side, wanting to join her but unsure of how to announce his presence. His winter had been one-note, antisocial, endless.