Bitterroot Valley ✢ clockwork

sega was quiet for a long while, the wind moving through his coat like a river through reeds. the mention of flood made something flicker behind his eyes—memory, or grief, or both.

water take much, he said at last, the words shaped slow, heavy on his tongue. land. name. people. his gaze fell to the earth between them, where rain pooled in shallow prints. but not spirit. spirit learn to walk again.

he shifted, broad shoulders lifting, breath clouding in the chill air.

you strong for leave, he said, tone even, but meant as comfort. home not always place. sometimes… he looked toward the fogged valley, where green pressed against stone. sometimes just where you breathe easy.