Dawnlark Plains please don't dress in black when you're at his wake

trust was a hard thing to offer when one carried life beneath their ribs.
she did not—only answered with movement. her head dipped, jaws parting. she took the edge of a leaf, sharp and faintly bitter, and chewed. slow. the sound soft beneath the hush of the forest.
then, she swallowed.
she cocked her head, birdlike, wolfish. not mocking—inviting.
your turn.