Lost Creek Hollow [m] psalms 91:10

this was not real.
her children were preparing to come earthside, and wren was beginning to feel it; she assumed her wife, too, was ready. impossibly round and gravid, it was hard to even so much as walk without feeling that pressing ache in one’s spine. it was around this time that a woman would likely be preparing a den, a place to stay for the next eight weeks.
but something was wrong. very, very wrong; she had been sensing it for a while and merely chalked it up to stress, forcing herself to swallow it and calm down. until it grew. it clung to her like a festering wound, a bulbous scab that simply would not go away. and on the day she was set to build a home, instead, she crossed the borders to search.
maternal instinct did not come very naturally to the songbird, but in place of it was a bond she had already begun to nurture. it was as if she had little friends who she carried around; little versions of she and her wife! and nothing from the farthest, most wretched depths of inferno would stop her from ensuring their safety.
she was confident until she heard it — that single, long note. it was true. she would know it anywhere.
there was a ghost at her doorstep.