Her hair is an endless river of night, a glossy, star-flecked black. It fills the forest behind her, a record of every step she has ever taken. It snags on branches and tangles in brambles. Birds nest in it. Rivulets break away, flowing into rabbit burrows and fox dens, tributary strands that gradually dwindle. She stands here, one foot lifted, waiting for her hair to grow long enough for her to place it down and raise the other.
I stand before her with my silver shears. Her eyes are wide, brimming with tears.
I wish I knew what to do.
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