There’s an armless maiden in the woods beyond the house.
She doesn’t wail or weep the way you’d think a ghost or a grieving girl would. Her footsteps are heavy—sometimes she loses her balance—but that’s the only way to hear her coming.
Genevieve Valentine
Wondrous Days
“We should make a map,” she says. “Just to keep track of things.”
I keep my mouth shut, try not to look at her.