Dawnlark Plains seasons

Would he have felt warm in her arms? Or would she feel nothing but the cold even then?

She drifted as if drawn in by the thought, steps trailing closer. No sound from her then but her footsteps — and perhaps, if he listened very closely, the faint rhythm of a faded heart.

Someone loved me, once.

They called me Blueberry.

No one had called her that in such a long time.

Closer then — and Manea idled past him as if he wasn't there at all. Only a brief beckoning glance over her shoulder showed that she saw him. Yet it was clear she expected him to follow; something older than themselves, perhaps, something written into their blood though they might never know it. Pieces of a puzzle waiting to fall into their place.

Her breath caught.