It was the smell of burning without flesh that disturbed her more. She supposed it would have been far more pleasing to note that perhaps someone had perished here, their skin melting, searing, while their hair blackened and smoked and then their eye-balls began too--

Another time. Another place for such thoughts. What was left behind of a place she'd once been invited to was no more. The acrid smell of even the foundations twisted away seemed to her like what promises might do in a heart.

For those who had them.

Suliss'urn, in quietness that would never be spoken aloud or known on her features--missed the dogwoods most. Cornaceae. The delicateness of life around them seemed fitting to the trees.

Now gone.

But a lone, seered, scorched, blackened trunk remained.

It is there she leaves the not, sealed in what some may call archaic oiled paper against the weather, and what some might say a fine idea given how the cold was coming.

It read:
"I do naut know whose hands will touch this first. I do naut know the stories the earth sings here. I do naut know much, to be honest. Will it be yours, Lotha Barra? Or will it be your hands, sokoya, sokoya" the croon of her ruined voice almost heard." that will find this letter and pick it up.

"Either way. It will find the right home.
But I wonder--
will either of you?"

--S