At dawn, she carried the kite to the top of Whispering Hill. The wind there was wild and ancient. “Not for me,” she whispered to the kite, tying the warm, wish-filled pouch to its tail. “For them.”
The kite tilted. The wind roared. And then, instead of falling, the great painted eye on the kite blinked.
To be continued?
She let go.
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