She can hear the moths breathing feebly, struggling sluggishly against the glass of the kitchen windows. Perhaps she will find them later, lying like morose faeries in the dawn’s wet grass.
Once, she’d found the wing of a bluebird perfectly separated from its little azure body — undoubtedly the work of one of the many hopeful cats that continuously prowl around the kitchen courtyard. She’d gathered the immaculate wing into her apron; a secret prize she later hung with a piece of stolen butcher’s twine from the ceiling of her small and stony room.
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