She jogged along the edge of the ravine until she reached the dirt-and-timber stairs leading to the spring. As she descended through the passageway between the walls of weeds, clouds snuffed out the moonlight.
Prascovia gripped the weatherworn pine railing and listened. The birches gossiped in whispers with the faint wind. Encouraged by darkness, the ferocious pests of her emotions bored holes in her composure. The idea of going home, curling under a thick blanket to block out sounds and lights and thoughts and fears was as tempting as a hot bowl of kasha on a rainy autumn day.
SOUL OF THE UNBORN ON AMAZON