There once was a young woman born with thorns under her tongue. And they made every word she said come out sharp, and prickly, and pointed, and mean. And it didn’t matter what she had meant to say, if she had been giving a compliment, or ordering food, or trying to tell someone she cared for just how much they meant. The thorns would dig into the flesh of her gums and made every word come out sharp, and prickly, and pointed, and mean.

Until one day, she could no longer stand how she saw her words hurt others, and decided the world would be better off without her thorns. And so she moved to a lonely cottage, on the far edge of town.

And she was alone.

But the time just seemed to pass so... slowly. It was just so boring.

And so, she went out, and she began to collect books. She studied the histories and sciences, mathematics and language and literature, and she filled the margins with notes and journals with her writings. And as she worked, her eyes grew strained and weak in the dim light of her lonely cottage. But she didn’t notice, because while she was reading, she lost track of time. And when she knew more than just about anybody ever had, she grew bored of books.

And so, she went out, and she bought yarn and wool and needles. She learned to spin and knit, weave and crochet and embroider, and she made beautiful hats and sweaters and blankets with stunning imagery. And as she worked, her fingers grew calloused and her muscles tight hunched over the loom in her cramped and lonely home. But she didn’t notice, because while she was creating, she lost track of time. And when her handiwork was finer than just about anybody had ever made, she grew bored of wool.

And so, she went out, and she took herself far up into the hills. She hiked up and down each mountain, drills and exercises and weights, and she pushed her body to its limit until collapsing into bed each night. And as she worked, her skin grew wrinkled and covered in age spots out in the harsh sun of her vast and lonely backyard. But she didn’t notice, because while she was exercising, she had track of time.

And when she had become stronger than just about anybody ever could, she stopped. She said to herself, “how could I be so selfish? I have all these wonderful things I have made and skills I have worked for, but I have only hoarded them all.” She decides she must take these things she had worked so hard for, and offer them up to those she had hurt, begging their forgiveness.

But when she had finally steeled herself to go back into town, she was met with only confusion. Everything seemed... wrong. Different. Her feet followed familiar routes through the streets but the buildings felt strange, larger, heavier. And she searched each one for a familiar face, one to begin her journey of reconciliation with, but found none. She could not even remember how long she had been gone.

She had lost track of time. And time was a haughty and self- important creature. It would not stand such disrespect.

But, resolved as ever, she did not give up. She was determined to make up for her past deeds. She began to wander the world, and wherever people were uneducated and struggling she would bring her glorious library to read and teach. Wherever people were exposed to the wind and rain she would bring beautifully handmade sweaters and gloves and hats. And wherever a house had caved in, or a tree had fallen, or a wolf threatened the sheep, she would save the day with her incredible strength. Until word of her actions spread across the land, passed down generations. Her name became woven in folklore and whispered by the fire and prayed to at alters.

But even this, was not enough to convince her that she had been forgiven. That she was good.

One day, as she followed a path between cities, she came across a young man, who walked with a limp and a stick. As she drew close, she saw his skin was covered in blemishes and burns, causing him pain with every step.

She fell to her knees, begging: “let me carry you! I am stronger than anybody, and you are light and frail, please let me take you where you are going!”

He looked at her, and saw her back bent and shoulders shaking from the years spent carrying others, and shook his head. “I have walked this road many times, do not worry yourself.”

And so, she replied: “then let me weave you a new set of clothes! I am a better seamstress than anybody and yours are cheap and scratchy, mine are so soft they will not upset your wounds!”

He looked at her, and saw her fingers calloused and her wool supply running low from the decades making things to give to others, and shook his head. “I have worn these for years, do not worry yourself.”

And she stamped her foot and cried: “but you must let me do something. I was born with thorns under my tongue, you have surely noticed that every word I say comes out sharp and mean. I will travel to every library in the world, and I will read up exclusively on diseases and disorders, then I will return to you to fix whatever is wrong- I’m sorry, I have already hurt you.

"I am so, so, sorry.”

And sorry was a word the young man new well, for while she apologized for her words with her deeds, he had always depended on the good deeds of others. And out of survival his words had grown soft and fragile. Like flower petals.

He looked once again at her, and shook his head. “Do not worry yourself. It's a lovely spring, isn't it? I would like to enjoy it.” And he turned, and began to continue on his way.

"Wait!

"Then- let me walk with you.”

And he nodded, and offered her his hand.

And as they walked, she did something that surprised even herself. She began to talk. As they walked they conversed freely and casually, then as friends, and soon as close companions. They collected fairy tales and fictions to read aloud while the other wove bracelets and pillows and stuffed toys. And together they took long, slow, meandering walks through the hills. And the fine new woven clothes he wore were as soft and gentle against his wounds as his words were against her thorns. And while the thorns under her tongue never stopped digging into the flesh of her gums, and the wounds on his skin never left him alone for alone, the next time she returned to the world to do "good deeds" she did so not out of guilt, but out of love.

And time, offended, gave up on them completely.