He sits next to the river, watching it flow beneath the golden haze of the sunlight. As a cool wind blows across his fur, he can only think of one thing: her. The aspen. Her cool, calculative gaze, the way she stares at him with an expression akin to dread. Yet all the same, he thinks of her in the highest way possible, as if she were standing on an invisible pedestal. There is a certain aura that surrounds her glorified form, one that demands attention. It's a strange, bittersweet sort of sadness, one that tears at his heart more than anything in the world.