Elara touched her hair. “This is yours?”
“You found it,” the girl said. “My bow.”
Walking home, she passed a girl on a bench. The girl was crying—shoulders shaking, face buried in her hands. Elara felt a tug to stop, to ask what was wrong. But the bow pulsed warm against her neck, and a quiet voice inside said: Keep walking. You’ve earned your good day.
Elara’s stomach turned cold. “What happened to her?”
The girl’s smile faded. “She cut off her hair to remove the bow. Then she burned it. Took years to find herself again.” She stood up, rain plastering her hair to her face. “I buried this one so no one else would find it. But you did. And now it’s feeding on you.”
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