It’s cold. Not as cold as it was, but cold enough to warrant a jacket, a pair of sturdy boots, gloves. Spring is coming, but winter has yet to let go of the waking world.

Fog embraces the mountains like a lover. It fills the valleys with haze, trailing up the gullies and between the trees with thin, reaching fingers. The snow has melted but for the mountain tops and shadowed places. A breath of wind stirs the air, sighing through the trees – pine, fur, spruce, hawthorn, oak, ash, birch, and willow – bringing with it the smell of the distant ocean and rain. The great gorge is visible through the trees to the west, the solitary peak of Holdo shrouded in snow flurries in the south. 

Blue-grey clouds fill the gorge, the rest of the sky a slate grey that presses upon the senses, bringing the world in close. A storm is coming, the promise of rain tinting everything blue. 

All this combined brings her to life; wakens the muse. She has been waiting. Waiting for her fingers to wake up, for her mind to escape from the prison of vagueness and brevity. 

She lives.