She spent so many days speaking only to the wind that the gusts and gales eroded her tongue. On the hills outside of town, overlooking the lake, all she could do was wail. The townsfolk ignored her. They told stories of her madness as they sat huddled around their fires and stew pots.

Witch, they whispered.

Years and years before she was mute, her husband, and most of the men of the village left for war. She’d stand on the hills looking south, waiting, watching and weeping.

The wind heard her cries, and did what it could to console her.


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