The world had forgotten the taste of rain.
But deep in the dark, pressed close to her warmth, the seed dreamed of rain. Ice Age
“Put it down,” said her grandmother, Kumiq. The old woman’s eyes were the color of storm clouds. “It’s only a memory.” The world had forgotten the taste of rain
“What is it a memory of?” Nuna asked. The old woman’s eyes were the color of storm clouds
It lay in a crack of blue ice, a tiny, dark fleck no bigger than her smallest fingernail. She almost missed it. But something made her stop—perhaps a sliver of instinct passed down from ancestors who knew forests, not this glittering desert.
“Can it grow again?” the girl 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.