She promised to see it for him, and tell him all about it, but when she moved that way, it was… different. Over the years she would figure this out more, but this was the first time: when she stayed in one place for too long, the silt and debris suspended in the water would slow around her, congeal into gossamer tendrils like the finest, most delicate hair, but mushy like moss, like the lake was trying to gift her a body, a form, a shape, but all it had was what was within reach of where she was right then, however long that “then” lasted. She could still, with effort, extract herself from
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