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She liked knowing that rose bushes could fall in love and that leaves sang as they fell, a lilting sigh synchronous with their slow descent to the ground. Most trees could dream as well; all Nor had to do was observe a forest at dusk to know it was true.
Some pain did not want to be healed; it had to be convinced, compelled, coerced into submission. Some pain gathered on Judd’s hands, clinging to her fingers like sticky threads of spiderweb silk. Some pain was drawn out as shards of ice that shattered when removed. Some pain was made of heavy, dense pebbles that filled Judd’s massive hands; still other pain blistered her palms, with red seeping wounds that Apothia covered with bandages and thick salve. It was a grueling Burden.
For Nor, feeling happy felt like being a glaring target. Feeling happy meant that she had something to lose.
