The playground was a blur of noise and dust.
"Don't let her tag you!"
The other children's laughter bounced across the yard, sharp and bright, but it never reached the corner beneath the solitary tree.
Angel sat on the low stone ring built around its trunk. Her legs were longer now, reaching closer to the dirt than they had three years ago, but she kept them still. She didn't let them sway.
The others didn't look at her anymore. There was no reason to.
Her hair was gone—the silver strands that used to be so easy to grab, burned away with the heat and the screams. Now, there was only the mark. It began just under her eye and trailed down her neck, slipping over her shoulder like a frozen shadow.
It ached when the wind brushed it, a dull pulling sensation, but she didn't hate it.
The mark meant the voices in her head had finally gone quiet. It meant the hands had stopped reaching for her hair.
