one; when she was eight she climbed to the very top of the wise oak tree in her backyard, and there she stayed for an entire afternoon until a ruthless wind knocked her down, and through the branches she fell.
two; her mother was the one to find her laying on the grass with eyes open and empty as the Sun started to descend. her legs were twisted and her head was caked in dry red. for the next hundred years her mother's tears will send nourishment into the roots of the trees. that day the yard was cast in a heady glow, and for the rest of forever the Sun's retreat will make the vacancy in her chest sing.
three; the Moon is an elusive, searching thing. the darkness beyond the reach of the Sun is not as much cold as it is unknown and humans have always been in the business of slapping a dark mark on the yet to be told. she sleeps when the Sun is up and runs through the woods with the Moon always a few paces ahead.
four; when the Moon is out she follows the pinecone trails and makes necklaces out of the misshapen ones.
five; as she sleeps fields are plowed and money is counted. she dreams of reaching waters and western winds and a woman that cried so much her tears started a separate forest.
six; her eyes open when the last of the Sun drops below the skyline. the world is bathed in the gentle kiss of moonlight.
seven; sometimes she finds her way to the scraggly trees out of sight. there the ghosts make themselves known and sometimes if she is lucky or lonely enough she sees a girl at the very top of a wise oak tree. searching.
eight; this she does not know: when she was reborn, shame was cast away by the Moon's tides and burnt to ash with the Sun's rays. she skips through the forests and rolls down hills and does not worry about the way she looks.
nine; she had a dream in the beginning about candles and birthday cake. now the squirrels share their acorns and the Moon tells her a bedtime story once a year.
ten; there are some trees with their tops cut off. she sits down on the dirt next to them and reads the concentric circles within the wood, and they tell her equivocal stories about centuries of growth and standing tall. when she reads the inner bark, she always cries.
eleven; when the skies get sad she scurries to the top of a redwood and spreads her arms. light flashes through the clouds when she wills it and her screams shake the earth.
twelve; the rabbits all wear pinecone necklaces.
thirteen; sometimes after she wakes up, the nails on her hands are bitten down and bloody. the red brings tears to her eyes and the next day she dreams of falling.
fourteen; when she was eight she climbed to the very top of the wise oak tree in her backyard. a wind tipped her over and she fell through the branches. but just before she hit the ground the Moon wailed and the Sun rumbled and her mother had her back turned. and there was red on the ground and bones sticking out of flesh but then she opened her eyes to the last of the Sun disappearing under the skyline. the Moon said hello through the trees, and thus began the rest of forever.
fifteen; if she is not careful, the weight of the earth is not so easy to hold. if she is not careful, the grief of a woman that mourned so much she created a forest drunk on tears threatens to drown her. if she is not careful, she will wonder if a mistake has been made. but she is, so through the trees she runs.
this might make no sense. each little vignette is meant to answer a question in the prompt, in chronological order.