It was a familiar dream. A sensation on her forehead that felt like large hands filled with callouses rubbing her head, gently wrapping her in warmth that spread through her small body. Those hands had felt enormous to her once— because she had been little— but they weren't truly large. They were fragile, with long, thin fingers, the kind that could have easily snapped like brittle twigs if held too tightly.
The owner of those hands… it was none other than her mother.
Arabella never quite recalled the kind moments her mother shared with her, not clearly, not vividly. But she was confident that her mother had been kind once. After all, not everyone could remain in constant anger forever. Her mother, too, must have had moments of gentleness. She wasn't always that terrible mother who shouted and slammed doors. There had been softness before the storm.
