I watch as a butterfly lands on my fingers,
its wings luminescent in the rays of moonlight.
It tickles my palm and begins to flutter forward,
and I follow it close behind.
When we reach the small cottage we’re greeted by the crows,
who are intermingling with the ravens.
I hear them whisper things to one another,
“Ill,” “Burdon,” “Suffering.”
My footsteps are silent in the freshly fallen snow,
and I notice the small blanket of it
that covers the form of the small girl.
‘She’s so young’ I think to myself.
The butterfly lands on her small head,
and suddenly she’s there,
staring at me smiling.
She knows who I am.
She approaches me gracefully,
unlike so many I’ve met of her age.
Her tiny fingers wrap around my leg,
and she hugs me with another small smile.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not deserving of your thanks my child,”
as I take her cold hand in mine.
“I am merely doing what I must.”
She's allowed to her wrap herself in the bottom half of my cloak.

“Thank you anyway.”

We walk hand and hand into the night,
the butterfly now nestled in her hair.
She smiles at me one last time and I smile back
before I guide her to the last luminescence.