In the middle of nowhere, there was a field that was like a forgotten stretch of land where no creature ever cared to visit. The grass was a stubborn, winter-bitten brown, refusing to surrender completely, each blade stiff, cold. It was here, on this earth, that Cecilia knelt.
It was a journey through thawing memory. With each frantic leap through the teleportation network, putting distance between themselves and the creeping line of snowfall, the static in the adults' minds had begun to clear.
The blank spots, the logical seams in their personal histories, started to fill with color and sound and heartbreaking detail. The further they traveled from the epicenter of the erasure, the more the ghost took shape. By the time they reached this field, on the cusp of the still-untainted winter, the last veil had ripped away.
Their faces, once full of polite confusion and scholarly concern, were now clearly horrified. Realization took place.
