Mareen sits on a rock, in the very middle of one of Indiana’s waterfalls, where the water is fast but shallow, her dress damps on the ends where it hangs into the water, she eats an apricot with one hand, while the other holds her decaying book.

her eyes are focused on the pages, her pretty eyebrows furrowed above them, but as you come close, she smells you, and the void black of her irises snap into your attention.

she doesn’t speak, but she knows very well who you are, or rather what you are.

she munches on her fruit, it stains her forearm and her chin, looking at you expectantly.