The meadow had healed, at least on the surface.
The split in the ground was gone, flowers grew again, bees hummed as though nothing had disturbed them. But Persephone remembered. She remembered the sound of hooves like thunder, the chariot of iron and fire, and the shadow that had looked at her as no one ever had.
Now she walked alone, basket in hand once more. The nymphs had stayed behind—they whispered too much, eyes full of fear after that day. She had told them she wanted silence. That was only half true. The other half she could not speak aloud.
She bent to gather a stem of narcissus, its pale petals brushing her fingers. The earth seemed to lean toward her again, as it always did, but she felt another pull, heavier, deeper, like something waiting beneath.
The wind cooled suddenly. The bees vanished.
Persephone froze, her basket trembling in her hand.
