Two figures. A woman and a girl.
One in white, the wet feathers of snow gently nestling on small shoulders.
She's whistling, satisfied.
The other in red,
bright against the dark backdrop of a forest with no name,
but the one everyone knows anyway.
One on the prowl, the other hunted,
always in pursuit, always fleeing,
a scale that she will not balance.
Watch us.
Watch the red bleed itself into the snow until both blush like arctic dusk, shivering and drained.
Watch the white twine itself into rings, more and more until you can't see what waits within them.
Watch the woman and the girl until you see us as one and the same.
Because she is, of course. She always has been.
And she turns, and on my face is a smile to make innocence and devils alike wonder:
"Which one is mine?"
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