[There's only smooth skin under her fingers, but to any other the mark would be easy to see; black and white marking her skin like an old tattoo.
Around her, the night seems . . . not brighter, but lighter, somehow, the meadow and its lone bench lacking any hint of colour, but clearly visible. Around the border, she can see now where the space passes into a deep black . . . and where, here and there, old footsteps in the grass mark the paths out.
In her arms, the child's body begins to dissolve into mist.]