Manteau

The wind carried the sad melody of the end of a song across the river, the trees carrying the song far with the wind. The voice was soft and feminine, almost breathless, and barely perceptible from the wind.
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[ ♪ ] “…Born of glass, but made of wild, the world has named me nature’s child. Not a cipher, not a key… just the song the earth set free.”
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She sits along the river, peering into the reflection below as her legs ripple the water with their slow sway. Her blind eyes wonder what that reflection looks like. Her ears perk high, ever vigilant for danger.