It rained on the anniversary of the day they threw me away.
A year, near enough, since the night I'd been dragged across the territory line in a ruined dress and left in the cold rain on the wrong side of a wall, certain the story was over. A year since the girl in the mud. And it rained again now a soft spring rain, warm and slow, falling on a pack held and a peace kept and a life I could not have imagined lying broken in that first cold downpour.
I went to the eastern wall. To the old drainage culvert, the servant's way, the place I always went. It had become a kind of pilgrimage the Luna returning to the geography of the nobody, again and again, to remember what she was built on. But this time I went in the rain on purpose, on the anniversary, because I wanted to stand where the road
