Whitebark Stream crawling back to you

the shallow brook murmurs against the banks, a steady wash of water over stone. anoré stands at its edge, watching the way the current distorts her reflection. shifting and unraveling at the edges before reforming again.
she does not recognize the face that stares back at her. once, it had been crowned in laurels, embraced by the god crow, and the warmth of her children. they filled her every corner. it had softened her, before.
she exhaled through her nose, bitter, "what's left, lunarre?" she can't bear to look at herself anymore.
she steps forward and the water swallows her paws first, then her limbs, but the cold does not reach deep enough.