The days were colder, the nights felt longer.
She was nowhere nearer to any answers of anything. One, was it two?, wolves had called herKite, but that answered nothing for her, either. In her tiredness, in her exasperation, in her hunger and every other miserable thing she endured, Nightingale could not summon even the most recent of memories. Not of Inna, not of the gray (had she been gray?) woman with children, not of anything.
Nightingale wondered if she ought to have left at all.
It was about the time she walked alongside a Creek that she nearly gave up on everything, until the very thought of the word Creek seemed to illicit a memory of a place. Was it identical? Could she conjure up that place? Was this it? Nightingale continued to chant the word within her head, her exhausted eyes lighting up with the thought that she might know something, that this might be a place of her dreamworld. It could be real, could it not? Nightingale cared not if it was a delusion; she let herself believe, because she had nothing else.
Creek. Creek.Creek. Yes,she talked to herself. Maybe it would help her remember.The rocks. A den.I grew up here in a voice that was not her own, but not one she recognized. A voice of dreams.
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