A rush of wings marked the start of her journey. Black. Dark, as crows rose from the field past Grandma’s house. Trepidation. Would he even be there? She held her basket a little tighter.
A comforting hush hugged the forest; roosting birds quiet now. The trees almost sighing as she entered the glade. He was there by a moss laden tree stump. A long tongue snaked over sharp bright teeth.
The snap and crack of branches breaking disturbed him. His head raised; snout sniffed the air and his hackles rose as he saw her hold her father’s hunting knife aloft.
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