Morning light filtered through the thatch roof. It wasn't the harsh glare of the sun, but a soft, diffused glow. Dust motes danced in the beams. They moved like tiny stars. Elara watched them. She lay on the bench. Her body felt heavy. Not with pain. With stillness.
The cane leaned against the wall. Ash wood. White. Bleached by the Arctic ice. It hummed. Faintly. A residual vibration. Like a bell that had been struck and was still ringing.
She sat up. Her joints clicked. Not the sharp click of age. The soft click of settling. Like stones in a riverbed finding their place.
She stood. She walked to the opening. The view was the same. White chalk. Blue sea. Red poppies. But the poppies were more numerous. They had spread. Down the cliff. Into the valley. A red river flowing through the gre
