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Untitled. The field at the edge of the forest is dark, quiet, the only light coming from the full moon above. The midnight air is crisp, cool, with that sharpness that hurts the throat when breathing. The only sound is the whisper of wind that ruffles my cloak, the material flapping at my ankles. The wind also brings the smell of a forest after rain, that rich scent of wet soil that is fresh and clean.
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I stand still in the field, not moving, my fingers curled tightly around the staff in my right hand. Its wood is covered in intricate carvings like shallow grooves that I can feel beneath my skin, the ancient bark smoothed with time.
I’m waiting for someone.
It starts to rain again. First the drops fall in ones and twos – I feel them on my bare skin as sudden bursts of cold. One strikes the hand holding my staff and it falls, trickling slowly down the back of my hand to the inside of my wrist and continuing down my arm. I raise my face to the night sky