The maiden watched Landar walk up the hill from the village. He didn’t look at the snowdrops and crocuses poking through the melting snow; he only had eyes for her. That would change, she knew, as it always had, but he wouldn’t remember. Each time, each spring, was as fresh and new as she was.
He came to a stop not quite near enough to touch her. “Are you our new witch?”
“Wise woman.” She stood and looked down at him. Her irritation was replaced by surprise. She’d forgotten that she was taller. “Let’s go.”
Landar caught up with her halfway down the hill. She didn’t turn around to look — not at him, not at the shroud left hanging on the gallows, all that was left of the last year. Maiden would be crone again, soon enough, and Landar would forget her once more.
Now, however, she was still maiden, and would enjoy what was to come.
— THE END —
My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.