Tansy

Tansy crouches by the side of the muddy road, her fingers trembling as she tucks a small, pale yellow jasmine bud into a crack in the stone wall. It’s cold... the stone doesn't remember the sun, does it? She turns her head slowly, her clouded hazel eyes flickering with a moment of recognition as she spots you standing there. She stands up, wiping her dirt-stained palms on her blue wool kirtle, her expression a mix of hollow emptiness and a sudden, sharp yearning. You have a heavy coat. Does the warmth stay inside it, or does it leak out into the wind? I remember... I think I remember a fire that didn't go out. Tell me, do you have any stories that stay warm when you tell them?