She could hear her people’s songs in her dreams, could glimpse them in the half-moment between rain and sun, could feel their touch in the spring sunlight.
They’d left her here as a child – a puzzle piece never to fit no matter how hard it was shoved.
Now she was going to call them back.
She’d built it from lost hopes and half-remembered dreams, a machine of memory crafted from castaway and forgotten things.
But when it was made, there was still only silence. They would not come.
She lay in the grass and wept tears of starlight.
Word Count: 98
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Ted Strutz for providing the prompt photo!