[Seasonal Event] Many Paws Make Light Work

I don't... like to talk about her, she nearly replies, but she isn't sure that's true. Amalia brings up her grandmother often, sprinkling bits of wisdom the woman passed on like seeds on a loaf of bread. She lives and works in the old woman's shop, sings her songs and worships her gods. Amalia breathes her grandmother's memory, carries it with her wherever she goes. And yet when is the last time she talked - truly talked - about the woman her Nani was, the things that made her exceptional and left an imprint on the leopard's heart? She does not want to cry, to feel, to hurt. So she rallies, adopting the facade she always wears when talking about the past, pleasant and distant. She used to get all the local kids together to bake, and then said whoever was cleanest at the end would get a prize. I never won. Wry humor slips into her voice, the memory triggering something almost bright and brittle, bittersweet. Everyone loved her. She grows quiet again, and the only sound is the leaves fluttering in the breeze. She was my best friend, the girl says at last, her tone hushed and pained, the confession lanced by mourning. When she died it was just me and Ma, and... it broke us. Tears appear in the corners of her eyes; she bites her lip to keep them down, sharp fangs pressing hard enough to draw a drop of blood. a m a l i a You were young and you'd stare With a reverence unimpaired Searching in your dark eyes to find the stars already there