“Well, look who it is.”
She tilted her head up to look at the grinning face above her, dripping with blues and greens and sparkling in the wet. “I knew I’d find you here.”
She leaned back into the root; it prodded her in the back. The other moved to see her better, jingling and grinning, oblivious.
“Would you go away?” she muttered, voice grating like ancient stone snapped in half by vines. The face faltered, melting a little.
“But to be sure,” it said, “don’t you wish for me to stay or bring you back?”
She sighed, falling further back into the root, despite its insistent prodding. “I don’t know,” she said, and now her voice was tired, and dripped like the arms of a willow, weeping into a river. “I don’t know anymore.” Her voice creaked with age.
The face shone no more. It dribbled, looked down, unsure. “I cannot help you, then, if you are unsure,” it said, carefully, trying not to sound harsh. If it did, it was unintentional. It was merely the truth.
She nodded slowly, wearily. “I understand,” she whispered, and she did. But she didn’t like it at all. She didn’t like the confusion of herself, the swirling. Everyone else seemed to be clear, while she was a muddy mess.
“I will go now,” said the face sadly, dimming to a dark, sad brown and disappearing. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” she said so quietly not even a moth could hear. The face was gone. She was enveloped by the root as it wrapped around her in a vain attempt to protect.