They do not blink.
The frame is soft, overgrown. Wild blackberries have swallowed the stone marker where Red’s mother used to pray. In the foreground, Red’s hand—calloused, nails clean for once—rests on the axe handle. Not her mother’s axe. The woodcutter’s. The woman who taught her to skin a rabbit, to read a wolf’s scat, to love the silence after a kill.
“Grandmother,” Red says, setting down the basket. “What big eyes you have.”
“Then I’ll give you a new one.”