A Campfire Scene

He got frustrated with her. He wanted her to step up to the plate and accept what their responsibility is, but no matter how hard he tried she refused. Every evening meal she would sit cross-legged in front of the campfire, staring into the flames, off on some imaginary world where his problems weren’t her problems. Her tresses flowed gently with the wind, across her absent face as he placed a bowl of stew in front of her. She didn’t even acknowledge him. Why was she being so rude? He had just saved her from being kidnapped, and not even a thank you was uttered from those pale lips. She sat rigid, burning her face from being so close to the flames, for hours.

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