The Thornbound Witness

The first time the wind touched her face, it mistook her for a door and tried to pass through. She let it chatter in her hair while the old battlefield fell quiet behind her. Beneath the thorn crown, she was counting the names of the fallen, not as a prayer, but so the earth would know whom to hold gently. When she finished, the armor came loose like winter bark, and she walked home carrying only the rain.