There’s a particular type of feeling that grows through the winter months, and the stories that emerge can be dark. It comes when the light is low, the air is chilled and the hills are lying in rest, their eyes sealed shut.
It’s during this time that the winds can be wild, and unusually cruel; they sharpen their teeth on Tiny’s skin, scalding her lips with a vicious kiss. The trees are naked, shivering; no songs fill the sky, and the earth merely waits, counting under it’s breath in a low, measured rumble. It’s a rhythm that Tiny can feel in the core of her being; a song that’s deep and familiar, a harmony so raw and innate that even when she’s empty, she’s full.

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