We could feel it wordlessly shift, slowly, until a morning came where the air blew fresh and fine, with only a hint of a chill. It rolled in all quiet-like on us—but me and Cheek, we were on red alert for that shift, that tick tick tock of springtime counting down on us. It didn’t sneak up on us; we were ready and waiting.

It was…early, way too early, when we decided to jet. Too early for anyone to be walking around casually except for a patrol here or there, and they were easily avoided (and I ain’t sure they were lookin’ for our asses too hard, either). It was quiet and calm with something balmy in the air, sweet, the scent of grass shoots pushing themselves from the dirt. The scent of new, shiny things to come. Of rebirth ‘n shit.

It was the first time in a long while that I strapped Sparkmarrow to me—and at once, I felt a familiar buzz that ran through the harness and the metal of the sheathed blade, reminding me of a thing that I missed without realizing I was missing it. I dunno man; it just didn’t seem right to walk around a stranger’s home, trampling on their kindness, with a sword at my side that was ready and willing for a fight. It would’ve been rude, unseemly. So, for my stay here, I had kept Sparkmarrow buried somewhere safe (and lonely), keeping myself bare and vulnerable, a peace offering.

But nah, I was done with that. It was time to hit the road, jack, and I was feeling a freeing thing from Chico as he fluttered above me, a huge, flapping owl scouting the area before me with powerful eyes. He was certainly glad to be going, and I can’t blame him. We were used to a certain kind of freedom than the Edge couldn't allow us, and it wasn’t her fault, not really, but walls are walls are walls and even though the land inside of it is big as hell, you still know you’ll eventually hit a wall (or a Cliffside, whatever, it still counts). It felt good to break free finally, to shy away from the awkward, precarious nature of our guesthood (What was cool for us to do? What was pushing it?).

What we didn’t anticipate was the heavy feeling from us, in both our hearts (Chico less so than I). He was lamenting (vaguely) over leaving his new friends behind, in the form of that lil’ elephant shortstack he adored, all those girls who just loved loved loved to offer him snuggles. As for me, well—it was a little bit harder for me to swallow. Leaving like this, before the sun even broke, without so much as a goodbye to Tembovu, a thanks again, bro, I sure do appreciate it. To be fair, I’m not sure if I could’ve done it face-to-face anyway. I fucking hate goodbyes, and besides, it ain’t like I wasn’t gonna see him again, right? It’s so weird—not too long before, I hated the Edge. But now they could probably call on my help for some shit. Ain’t life weird like that?

(Time flows, it never stops, and things get caught up in the current—)

There were other things that hit a little closer to home that really hurt me, eating at me, making my swallows go down hard and bitter. But there was no use crying over it (even though I wanted to, oh god, I really, really wanted to—) I had come here looking for Ma; she wasn’t here; Tembovu had given me until Birdsong to stay, get my thoughts straight, get out of the cold. Birdsong was here now; a whole season had passed with just me squatting in a garden, looking over a cliff at the mist beyond and wondering what it meant. Waiting for someone to show up; looking for a way to walk up to them and ask, how’re you doing?

I had no more excuses.

Time to go.