Nor can she recall where she came from, how old she might be, or even her own name. Her memory is as still as the grove around her.
But neither remain that way for long.
Something is tickling at the edge of the woman’s perception, like a low hum that she feels more than hears. The vibrations are almost comforting in their own way, and for several moments the woman is content to lay amongst the leaves and listen to them intensify. Yet, as the sound sharpens and becomes clear, she realizes what she is hearing: the deep, guttural growls
Just Another Struggling Writer 
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