Years rolled like weathered stones. Asha married, raised children, and taught them to weave and to name the birds. Once, when her eldest son asked about the odd lullaby her father had hummed, she tried to hum it and could not. She felt guilt like a callus — a dull, persistent ache that told her she had traded something precious for the village's survival. Sometimes that ache was sharp enough to wake her.
Tabootubexx considered her with a slow, precise tilt. "Names are heavy," it said. "They ask for things in return." tabootubexx better
"My father did not come," Asha said. "We need him, and we need the grain to keep our bellies from emptying." Years rolled like weathered stones