Tāwhirimātea appeared to me in the backseat of a bus that shuddered and groaned as it passed through Matatā and headed north of Whakatāne. He moved between the aisle of patched chairs with no sound. His hair cascading down his shoulders in thick waves, unruly and twisting like turbulent winds. His skin was golden-brown and weathered from some unspeakable storm, but his eyes appeared like clouds. Shades of grey and white. No one else paid him any mind, but the air around me felt suddenly choked. Pressurized and barely contained. When he spoke his voice was soft as an autumn breeze, whispered and chilly.
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