Whitefish River let the only sound be the overflow

her calls rasps and breaks as she calls for @Ira and @Evergreen, and the dull taste of metal fills her maw. the scents along the border are foreign, now and again a dim spark of recognition, but nothing enough to warrant her moving on. 

already, she's working to lock away the faces, the memories, the horror of the past week. grieving is an old habit to fall into, now, and one she knows she can not allow herself to fall into again. she knows something has shifted, broken and changed, and does not think she can or wants to regain the person she was before all this.