Bitterroot Valley ✢ And his eyes all over me

mama, he repeated, softer, tasting the word as she had. his chest felt tight, as if the cold had crept inside him, though the evening was warm. it was a strange ache—old, familiar. the kind that came when something was meant to leave.

he shifted, golden eyes finding her again, voice low and thick with his accent. she wait for you, he said. that good. a pause, heavy, quiet. we are people of walk. always wind at back. always moving.

his gaze dropped to the pelt, then back to her face. when strong, he murmured, you go. you see tʉba again.

a breath caught in his chest before he added, almost under his breath, but maybe… you come back.