The moment Heidi pushes herself up from the bench, her knees feel like they're made of shaky glass. The kind you see in old greenhouses, trembling with the slightest breeze, and ready to splinter with a touch. Her legs are uncooperative, but she forces them to move, one foot after the other, because if she doesn't rise now, she knows she never will.
Every single pair of eyes shifts to her again, and she instantly regrets not sprouting wings to fly out the nearest window. Preferably into the horizon. Preferably never to return. But no, apparently the Moon forgot to bless her with bird powers.
She squares her shoulders anyway, because what's the point of hiding? They've already sniffed out her fear a long time ago. Wolves were terrible like that—they smelled emotions, tasted them in the air like wine. And Heidi? She was basically a walking buffet of insecurity.
"NO WAY! She's a moon blessed after all?"
"Who dressed her up so flamboyantly then?"
"She must have stolen the dress!"
