Moonstone Quarry Every bird, gone unheard

solharr watched her come, quiet, as always. she brought warmth with her, a kind that did not burn but softened. his eye followed her steps until they folded beside the small carcass. her voice came easy, like mist over stone.

seems so, was all he said at first, a low breath, low enough it could have been mistaken for wind through pine.

he nudged the marmot closer. a kill not for glory, but for need. he had made many like it lately. game enough to feed, to tan, to think.

i don’t sleep much these days, he offered finally, a gruff admittance. he kept his gaze on the treeline. quiet helps me think.

and he did think. too much, perhaps. of things that might not ever return. of a white shape in the dark. of steps that had once echoed near his own and now did not. he thought of her.

callyope.

the name was not said. it pulsed silently in his ribs like an ache that had long since settled into the marrow. a part of him still thought she might come back—walk through the mist like a ghost not ready to fade.