She laid there, all cold and pale like the dormant bark of a birch. The water slowly turned pink. It looked like scenery taken from a mid-century painting. Colors overwhelmed supposed fine lines; every object spoke their own versions of the same story.
Her fingers moved. Slowly, but they moved indeed. As they moved, her hand reached the closest tree. The movements grew even slower as her palm rested on the stem. As the water turned pinker, it was as if the water took her life force with it downstream leaving only the print of her palm on the tree.