Phoenix Maplewood I was sleeping in the garden

mictec watched from the shadow of the trees, a marigold eyes sharp against the pale stretch of snow. the wind carried the scent of fear before the girl ever came into sight—raw, untempered, a desperation that clung to every ragged strand of her fur.

she did not move to intercept. not yet. instead, she waited, a silent watcher as the other ran, as the snow swallowed the frantic drum of her paws.

corre. the word was quiet, lost to the wind. run until the world forgets you, until the ghosts that chase you turn to dust.

but even the swiftest deer must stop. even the hunted must decide when they will cease to flee.
mictec stepped forward then, deliberate, ensuring her presence was seen before it could startle. 

the familiar is already gone, she said, voice even, measured. what will you do now?
a test, a truth. for no one could run forever.