Beneath an orange backdrop of two ripened, bloody suns, white fingers of forest scamper across the paper cut horizon line, drinking at the edge of an ancient sea of adamantine waves.
And in the crescent-shaped clearing of her youth as a boy in these pearl hills of rolling limbs, a solitary TT capsule.
But it is not the one Borusa expected.
Nor is it the color.
Old eyes narrow further at this. Still, her feet recall the way better than she does, and bound her forward, upward onto pensive tippy girl-toes; they remember themselves to echo through the red grass like a newborn tafelshrew prancing in the first sunlight of spring… as her hair blooms around her, behind her, before her, a ribbon of pale gold silk as she bolts across the field.
She cannot help herself.