Silvertip Mountain worn pathways

Her body now following her head, Magpie stood and realigned herself to face him— even drawing nearer, though she stopped a few feet shy of being close enough to touch him. As he answered, the yearling's eyes washed over him. She had always thought of him as being older than her, but the clarity of adulthood now told her that wasn't so. Perhaps it was the situation that she had been in at the time— so much turmoil in her childhood, and then to be held captive by his pack— but Magpie had never truly seen him for what he was. He had been a playmate, a wolf she had bonded with when it seemed impossible that she would bond with anyone ever again... and even now, the way he looked at her, she had no true grasp of the depth of his feelings.

That was likely why she felt no guilt for leaving him behind, for not saying anything when she left and never returned, for not bothering to visit despite innumerable chances. In short, the yearling female was completely unaware of the fact that she had been a giant asshole to the dark boy that stood before her. His simple acceptance of her question, his willingness to answer, did nothing to alert her to the fact that she had been a poor friend.

"I do," she offered simply. "I think there are generations of ghosts on this mountain," she continued to explain, jerking her head back toward Silvertip. "Look at those pathways up to the summit; they're deeper than any single pack could make in its lifetime. I bet there are places on that mountain so haunted that it would make you believe all the time." Her oblivion continued; no "How have you been, Summer?", no "I'm so sorry. I've missed you, Summer." Just idle chatter about ghosts, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world to talk about— because for Magpie, it was.