Nuna stared at the seed. It was so small to hold so much loss.
“What is it a memory of?” Nuna asked.
Her name was Nuna. She was twelve winters old, though winters had lost their meaning. Her tribe kept moving, always moving, following the bones of great beasts—woolly giants with tusks like crescent moons—and the ghosts of rivers frozen solid. Ice Age
She picked it up. It was smooth. Dead, surely.
But deep in the dark, pressed close to her warmth, the seed dreamed of rain. Nuna stared at the seed
“Put it down,” said her grandmother, Kumiq. The old woman’s eyes were the color of storm clouds. “It’s only a memory.”
And so did she.
That night, as the aurora painted the sky in silent, cold flames, Nuna tucked the seed into a leather pouch against her heart. Outside their shelter of frozen hide and bone, the wind howled like a hungry wolf. The world was a white grave.
“Can it grow again?” the girl asked. Her name was Nuna
Kumiq smiled—a rare, cracked thing. “Not here. Not now. But you keep it anyway. You keep it because one day, maybe not in your life or your daughter’s life, the ice will sigh and retreat. And when it does, something will need to remember what green was.”
The world had forgotten the taste of rain.