// think of the sun that shaped them //
“Mm. The stories are numerous too.” She grinned softly, before making her way around the roots, picking through leaf litter and bramble. Her hopes were pinned solely upon flowers nowadays, scattering the bits and pieces of yesteryear’s soil by lightly combing through pine needles or loam, fallen portions of season’s arrangements, determined to find a speck of something. “It never suits to cross the Mathair,” she whispered, humming and repeating verses she’d heard ever since she was a child. “Nor get in her path when she’s hungry.”
Leaving those implications there, the Caretaker warned Mittens away from another fly trap, to which the snowball rolled its eyes, but floated and hovered around, either seemingly glancing for the roses too, or finding other things to mess and trouble with.
Leaving those implications there, the Caretaker warned Mittens away from another fly trap, to which the snowball rolled its eyes, but floated and hovered around, either seemingly glancing for the roses too, or finding other things to mess and trouble with.
Lena
// the speck of truth that's ours //
