I hear you... I hear you. You are... a river. A coursing water. Your travels have taken you to our home.

( But they need not end here, in their village, in their haunting. She stills, and next the drag of her hand lingers in her basket, it resurfaces with the hefty weight of a thick, well-aged serpent that mounts her wrist, coiling around her thin arm to perch its head peacefully on her shoulder. The long, molten blade of its tongue licks her cheek. )

I hope they have been good to you. Strangers are like found children. Whatever face they wear, they are a joy.