Like a fledgling, you'd stumble-fly day and night over the blind and ticking fields, intent on that tendril of scent calling from beyond. Most of the time, you are fickle; perhaps, others think, even unfaithful. But if you believe the name carried on the breeze addresses you and no other, you will follow the snow- dusted tracks, cross bridges of fog. Forests might crackle in the night, and towns burn to the ground. Even if you'd heard it only in a dream, you listen hard for the voice you know you would recognize, almost as if it were your own.
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