Otatso Wetlands mud masks

Irene tilted her head slightly, emerald eyes narrowing with a quiet warmth as she absorbed Rala’s words, each syllable laden with meaning. The snowwoman’s wisdom carried the weight of lived experience, and Irene felt its presence settle over her like a cloak. Her expression softened, touched by the advice and the kindness behind it.

You’re wiser than most I’ve met, Rala, Irene murmured, her tone gentle, yet sincere. Your grandmother’s words hold a truth I think I needed to hear today. I won’t rush, but I’ll remember not to stand still for too long. Balance, I suppose, is the lesson.

When Rala stood, her tail flicking in preparation for departure, a pang of reluctance rippled through Irene. She watched the snowwoman, memorizing the way her pale coat caught the light and the melody of her laughter. You’re not so bad yourself, snowwoman, Irene replied, her voice lighter now, humor dancing along its edges. A wanderer with wisdom, a singer with stories—perhaps I’ve learned a thing or two from you today.

She took a step forward, but not to follow. Instead, she dipped her head, an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection they had shared in their brief encounter. Travel well, Rala, Irene said softly. And should the winds guide you back this way, I’d like to hear more of those stories—and maybe I can provide a cleaner meal.

Her smile lingered as she watched the snowwoman fade into the distance, the soft thrum of her parting words echoing in her mind. For a moment, Irene stood still, letting the quiet of the wilderness envelop her before turning back to the path she had chosen, carrying with her the memory of a chance meeting that felt like a rare gift.

fadeeee