PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr
Her fingers trail in the mossy water.
The pond is still, no breeze to trouble the surface. Last time she was here, wind frothed the water, turning rain to mist. Though she’d shivered, her core remained warm, enfolded.
Now the bank is cold under her, damp creeps through her clothes, into her bones, worms up her spine. A chill stone seems to form in her stomach, heavy enough to hold her under the water. She feels so slight she could slip in with barely a ripple.
Should he return, he will find her. The water’s puppet.