The telegram came on a sultry August day. Rowan read its brief message then went to milk the house cow. She never spoke about it.
As summer drifted into autumn she felt herself fading with the year and her once sturdy body grew thin enough for the wind to almost blow through her.
It was October when Rowan saw the eagle. He rode a thermal and his feathers were burnished by the autumn sun. For a moment she was blinded by tears, then a beloved voice spoke in her soul.
“Live Rowan, that I may not have died in vain.”