Time did not pass in days. It passed in tides. In blooms. In the shedding of leaves.
Elara stayed on the cliff. The shelter became less of a building and more of a feature of the landscape. The thatch roof thickened with moss. The wooden walls darkened, blending with the chalk. Vines crept up the posts. They didn't strangle the wood. They hugged it. Like old friends.
The poppies bloomed. They died. They seeded. They bloomed again. The red river on the green grass grew wider. It flowed down into the valley. It reached the village. The people there didn't cut them. They let them grow. They walked around them. They treated the flowers like markers. Sacred ground.
Elara aged. It wasn't a sudden change. It was a slow settling. Her hair turned white. Not the white of the cane. The white of se
