She turned back toward the cabin. Cal had lit a lantern. The foal stood beside the old horse. The stars in the well had climbed to the rim and spilled softly into the grass, where they became fireflies.
Neither of them asked if this was real. On the prairie, v1.0.74, real was the least useful question. Song Of The Prairie v1.0.74
Yesterday, her world had been loneliness, a leaking roof, and a horse with a lame leg. She turned back toward the cabin
"Morning," he said. "I'm Cal. I live three miles west. Or—" he glanced at the sky, puzzled, "—I think I always have. Just never met you before." her world had been loneliness
It was the song.