The wind rushed over night's land. An invisible hand
caressing the leaves, grass, dust to spin open fal against
the moon's white pallor. When the wind paused, so did
movement. Save for a tiny shaking leaf in a corner of a
darkened, desolated country home.
Line was clutching the back of her neck, trying to bite
into her lip the effort she was giving for a struggle that
was ending ending ending. She gasped and her tears
reflected her razor memory. Ice, glass, and stone.