A girl named Primrose, nine years old and full of questions, stood on her porch. She watched as the snow on the rooftops didn't just melt—it danced , curling into tiny streams that ran laughing down the gutters. The sky, which had been gray for so long, cracked open like an egg, spilling soft blue light everywhere.
She’s here. Spring is here.
Primrose looked up. An old woman was sitting on a mossy log, her lap full of wild onion sprouts. She wore a coat made of stitched-together burlap sacks, and her hair was the color of last autumn’s leaves. seasons in spring
“Can I help?” Primrose asked.
“What promises?”