The hills seemed quiet now. No more ringing laughter that poured down from their fires. No more paper balloons launched by a thousand candles. No dancing scent of smoked meat writhing through the evening air, warring with the coming night over which would name itself the more crisp.
She must have walked where her house once stood. Rafters littered the ground, ground themselves to ash beneath their burden, scattered by inches in two sudden dimensions.
She must have walked where her house once stood. Her footsteps had written her passage, the char the ink to her foot's quill.
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