Runell Wilalila Webo Here

Mara climbed Runell and listened until her ears bled with old songs. Wilalila answered, but in stitches—snatches of memory, ragged threads of a name: "We—bo—" The Webo line, she realized, had been fraying, their listening interrupted in some earlier age. Runell’s knowing was intact but clogged by a wound: a sunk reef of memory where the sea of recollection met stone.