ai don fis disha spichen gona op

“Emori kom wingedakru odon,” she says, the words as acidic as before. She doesn’t fight it this time as it licks the back of her throat. Grey eyes closes and she takes several deep breaths, wondering how many of these plaguing thoughts she can take before it’s too much. Which thought would be the one to do her in?

It lingers heavily, weighing down her shoulders. Once proud, able to hold her chin up, now slumps, defeated, waiting for the next move. Emori feels her spirit missing, a wise presence through the generations, and it managed to have picked her and she had not been able to live up the expectations, with death on her paws she wasn’t able to count.

Nearly a minute passes before Emori notices the scent of another; it happens quickly and she turns, scanning her immediate area.

“Chon yu bilaik?” she calls out in her native tongue instead and takes a few steps back.