The voice was clearer now, more insistent.
And with it came images.
Flashes of memory that weren't hers, couldn't be hers, but felt absolutely real.
A village, small, rustic, and surrounded by forest. She was younger in this vision, or memory, or whatever it was. Wearing simple clothes, her hair longer, her hands rougher from manual labor.
And there was a boy.
Six, maybe seven years old, with dark hair and eyes that seemed too aware for his age. He was laughing, running toward her with arms outstretched, and she was catching him, lifting him, and spinning him around while he giggled with pure joy.
Mother, he called her in the vision.
Mother, look what I made!
He held up something carved from wood. A small bird, crude but recognizable, clearly made with a child's limited skill but infinite effort.
And she felt love. Overwhelming, absolute, unconditional love for this boy who called her mother.
