Yara ●

That night, she walked to the fig tree. She sat on the roots that curled into the water like arthritic fingers. She dipped her hand in.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the clay bird from years ago. It was still soft, still damp, still faintly breathing through the tiny slits on its sides. That night, she walked to the fig tree

“Witch,” the uncle whispered, but his voice trembled. ” the uncle whispered