“Ayla,” she said, her gruff voice barely audible. “The spirits have granted my wish,” she motioned feebly. “You’re back.” Iza held out her arms. Ayla embraced her and felt her thin, frail body, hardly more than bones covered with wrinkled skin. Her hair was snow white; her face, dried parchment stretched over bones with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. She looked a thousand years old. She was just past twenty-six.
