The owl found her in her garden, which had become (once again) more home than her house of late. She was planting again, and drank of the soil through her brown fingertips. Her knees and palms were dark with the rich ground, and her hair, even longer now, had predictably escaped its bun. She didn't care--she had been so rigid for so long that it had become impossible to even release in the privacy of her own home, and this was a relief
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