It is dark upon this field as we lie within the wheat.

It’s cold. It’s quiet. It’s lonely.

We lie together as I stroke her hair.

She’s in too much pain to look up, but I give her as much comfort as I can, murmuring quiet lullabies.

I hold her as I feel her corporeal form grow cold.

I carry her little spirit into the otherworld.

Her spirit awakes and sniffs a little.

Her ears perk up, and I let her out of my hand.

The little mouse, torn so cruelly from her realm,

Those boys with stones, leaving her in so much pain.

She runs around on the green field, far from the wheat fields of her former home.

Without pain, without the cruel fists of malice.

She is home now.

I leave the otherworld, and go to the next one.