look at your face like you're killed in a dream [c]

Time could be running backwards for all Heronkit knew; perhaps even stagnantly and terribly still, never continuing and most certainly never getting better. Her first day awake and finally warm and every painful, waking moment afterwards kept her in limbo, waiting for something to return or be given but never getting the chance or the opportunity. She was sick then- so tiny and frail, sweetly promised a swift death- and she was sick moons later, larger but no less fragile, heaving stolen, stuffy air through tattered lungs. Heronkit is a miracle. A beautiful, slowly recovering miracle.

She managed to open her eyes for longer than a few moments at her second moon, to perk her little head up at three. She could hold a conversation at four, and walk short distances at five. She was recovering, she was healing. Heronkit felt immeasurably proud, yet still mourning shone in her pretty blue eyes when she watched the other kits play with little care. Not one of them worried that they may die that day, or the day after. Heronkit finds herself worrying that she will not wake up from a slumber every time she lays her head to rest.

Yet Heronkit is strong, she made sure of it herself. She is content watching from a distance, keeping warm and as healthy as possible as she continues to gain strength. Soon she will be unstoppable, immovable- the forest will be hers and she will accept it with mirth.

But for just that moment, Heronkit was fine with lingering at the entrance of the nursery, fighting back coughs as she watches her littermates play, energetic despite the cold. She told herself she was fine with it, at least.