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# Motes — 2362
<figure>
<a href="/mp_05.png" target="_blank"><img src="/mp_05.png" alt="A letter"></a>
<figcaption>Art by <a href="https://roots.works" target="_blank">B. Root</a></figcaption>
</figure>
Motes stopped playing.
She stopped playing because, some weeks later, she was out with some friends, some of the others who had decided to give up on grown-up life now that they were here, now that they were decades old or centuries, now that they were functionally immortal. She stopped playing because, as she sprinted full-tilt after a handful of friends, dodging around benches and trees, seesaws and swings, a bolt of panic struck down her spine with an electric intensity and made her tumble into the gravel, made her skid through the pebbles until she crunched up against a jungle gym, left her nose, paws, and elbows bloodied. She stopped playing because for a long minute, she could not breathe, though whether from the adrenaline pulling her nerves taut or the pain in her snout or from the air being knocked out of her, she could not tell.