She never spoke of it afterward — the day she slid into and out of ivory lace that played so teasingly against pink that pink had a patina, the day she stood barefoot at the rough cabin door and sought meaning in ether rising from shoe prints pressed into the mossy path, imprinted into her memory.
:::
Written for The Mag: Mag 150 that inspired with the above photo prompt (image by Daniel Murtagh)
