The name meant nothing to her. She’d heard it murmured by others
once or twice, and whispered it to herself in the grayed shadows of night. But still,
the word was just a pair of syllables, having no weight or depth of their own.
Why then did she find her fingertips bruised, nails chipped and bloodied from
repeated attempts to scratch the letters into the stone she’d tucked inside her
pocket? Surreptitious strokes, thumb circling, reassuring.
Praying for Eyebrowz 