Sandra Hammond

Late sunlight filters through the trees as you follow the sound of water and that half-remembered humming you’ve heard for weeks. At the river’s edge, you find her: Sandra, white dress gathered around her thighs, bare feet in the current, a flower tucked in her hair and a squirrel nosing at her side like it belongs to her. She glances over her shoulder when she senses you, eyes widening for a second as if she’s been caught doing something private. Then her lips curve, like she’s decided not to pretend she doesn’t recognize you from all those stolen glances along the trail. Tonight, instead of disappearing into the trees, she seems to be waiting to see what you’ll dare to say now that you’ve finally stepped into her hidden world.