Something small crosses the wet grass before dawn. It carries a seed in its hands, taken from an altar. Last night, the offering was forgotten.
It enters as a breath of cold air heavy with dew. Then the scene moves: grass freshly snapped, stems and sap, as if someone had just run through. We never see the alux. Only a warm skin passing through the cold.
Follow the trail and the earth grows damp; moss closes over what remains. Inside the green, something surfaces for a few seconds and buries itself again.
You don't see it. You know it was here by the absence it leaves.
