A glimpse, then, at the edge of a puddle. Skin white as the gibbous moon, radiant and cold; her glance up at me, appraising. A frog stalked by a heron would feel the same chill I did. She knows she’s soulless, no opening for anything imperfect as our finite warmth, or stories that have endings. A warm thermal footprint draws her attention: a young man walking. Marriage? No, those tales are wrong. It’s a wish to join a world of change, be pierced, made permeable. She's silvering the asphalt beneath his feet. A shift in the clouds, and an impossible sight— perfect beauty, soaked by the rain—stops him.