She was born in a mountain cleft where the wind never spoke, a narrow cradle valley wrapped in frost, cloaked in veils of mist so dense that sun could not fully enter. The village there had no name spoken out loud. It was only called in vibration, in the tones of hollow stones and stringless zithers.
Echoes of My Imagination – family-friendly storytelling, one wild tale at a time.
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tracyleetyrrell@yahoo.com
