The Heartwood when I saw you first

trade and stories. in qiao burned a distant nostalgia for a segment of her earlier life. another time.

and the world marched ruthlessly on. observant as she was, she didn't bother commenting on the frown dance across the sun-gilded woman's face. qiao was not an empath; the troubles of others were not her own.

qiao. she paused as they stepped over a nascent patch of wild scallions. she snipped at their plumules and put them in the greenbriar pouch. each freshly cleaved head was covered by a mulching of dry grass.

and then, rising as if there had not been a lull in the conversation, qiao sought waawaashkeshi's gaze.

there were not many wolves like her. kind wolves. the wolves here lack more than respect. qiao cautioned, brushing dirt from her cinnamon pelt. they lack an understanding that the world they live in is not their own. tell me a story, waawaashkeshi. tell me a story that will move me to respect the earth.