The air in the meadow was too perfect. Every blade of grass shimmered as though bathed in eternal morning, and the wind that brushed Nerine's cheeks carried warmth without weight. Yet none of it steadied the tremor in her chest as she faced the woman before her.
Her mother.
Or at least, the woman who wore her mother's face—young, radiant, untouched by illness. The woman's silver-white hair, flowing down her shoulders, glowed in the light. Her smile was gentle, curious… but empty of recognition.
"Oh," the woman said kindly, tilting her head. "Young lady, who are you?"
Nerine's lips parted. The words she wanted to say tangled and stuck like thorns in her throat. She wanted to scream, It's me, it's your daughter! But what came out was a whisper:
"I… I don't know how I got here. I lost my way."
Something in her broke as she said it, but she masked the crack with a wavering smile.
