Bearclaw Valley When will you realize Vienne waits for you

the world began with fire.
or at least, it felt that way. her whole being burned, muscles too new to understand the way they clenched, twisted, fought against the weight of the world before she even met it. she knew only motion, the push and pull of something vast, something beyond her control. it urged her forward, and so she went—fighting the whole way.
and then—cold. space. open air. she was wrenched from warmth, and the silence shattered. the world roared to life, and so did she.
a wail—no, a song—ripped from her tiny, heaving lungs, unbridled and unrelenting. she sang herself into existence, her voice raw and primal, a shrill declaration that she was here and that the world must know it.
her paws flailed, tiny and useless, but determined. her mouth opened and closed, searching for something, someone—mama.
her wriggling form collided against warmth, against something soft and steady. instinct took over. her voice faltered, replaced by greedy suckling as she latched on, clinging desperately to the life offered to her.
but even then, even drinking deeply, even settling against the thundering heartbeat of her mother—she did not stop her song.
small murmurs, tiny warbles, breathless little cries—her voice never fully silent. she sang, because she was alive.