More bodies follow. All dead.
The stream winds on, joined by others as the mountains empty themselves of violence. Yet the violence remains.
There is an ache, a hunger: winter’s haunting.
* * *
“What are you doing here?” 43-1-12 asked her brother in disbelief.
Ürstus watched her with heavy eyes, as if burdened by shame. “Forgive me.”
“Why did you come?”
“It took me a while to find you.” He took a step forward, but she stepped away, the firmness of her expression warning him not to come closer. He pulled back and raised his hands in submission. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You have done enough,” she retorted.
“Rhoda.”
“Do not call me that.”
It had been so long since she had heard the name spoken. Amidst the sorrow and struggle of the last few years, she had buried it—to preserv
