M E L I T A
There were a few moments where Melita wished she’d learn to do things like baking as she eyed the little intricate designs, the pieces of snowflake, the feathers of the bird, the lonesome moon. Her heart and mind had been occupied by the great, gaping unknown, flourishing and flocking to those angles and parallels of peril and strife, waving her sword, brandishing her bow, sinking her teeth into another’s flesh. Her mother had been a wonderful, guiding star, but Melita had been too busy, too impulsive, too impetuous to follow the beautiful lines and sketches, and they were faded now, gone from sight – she breathed in the wondrous smells again and it almost felt like home. Her chest, her heart, lurched, but she said nothing about it; the pangs were constant, were frequent, and there was naught to be done. “These are lovely,” she proclaimed instead, the depths of her smile revealing her veracity on the subject, eyes scanning, finding great difficulty in choosing just one.
“May I please have a piece of the bird?” She finally opted for, fingers going for the coins in her pocket, but
