Ficly

night rises

she is only small. with her bare feet rooted firmly in the cool grass she stands very still and waits.

night doesn’t fall; night rises. it starts on the ground, in the corners. it creeps out from under stones, oozes out of cracks in the wall, slides along tree trunks until it reaches the remotest branches.

night takes its time to cover even the short distance between her feet and her head. now the shadow is covering her toes. very slowly it slides along her shins, reaches her knees, belly, throat.

she moves. slips into the dark, lets it wash over her face. night fills her lungs with air that is wholly different from the kind she breathes during the day. cold and soothing.

sixteen more steps, then she reaches the tree. her hands know where to grip the bark, her feet know which branch will support her weight. she settles on her favourite bough, nothing but black leaves around her. with her toes she plucks at a dry twig – the whole tree rustles and for a moment she can see the stars.

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