I stand in a river.

Feel the water.

She treks off for the stones first, gathers each one and places them appropriately, glues them down.

Her fingers mold the dirt, as clay, she shapes the mud into its original form, she heats it to make it solid, immovable.

The water splashes at her ankles.

Feel the water.

She edits each parameter with a furrowed brow. Is it right? Is it all right? Is it perfect? And she dips her clothes into the water and puts them on because this is how she was when she first stood here. Soaked. Up and down, she dips each item; she hums. The water moves over her hands, covers them, and away again.

Feel it. Feel the water. Feel the water again.

She stands. She fidgets. She steps forward, toward me, then back. Is it right? Is it all right? Is it perfect? She shakes her head, she shivers, she walks off into the forest and I won't hear about her death until weeks later, her body never found.

I am still standing. I feel the water. I feel it.

I feel
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