She saw no comfort but the ghostly visages of her lost family, a man's calloused hand resting on a child's shoulder, a girl's laugh, bright and brittle as ice. Their faces pale and smiling in the illusory hearth-light.
'...'
The realization struck us both at once.
The Shroud recoiled, its form rippling in distress. It hadn't meant to conjure loss. It had only wanted... connection.
And soon after, a patrol of guards, bundled in heavy furs, stumbled upon her, lying half-buried in the snow, muttering feverishly about impossible ghosts. They scanned the swirling white, hands on their sword hilts, muttering worriedly about the existence of a "monster."
The Shroud, of course, understood nothing of their words or fear.
But through the kaleidoscope of human memories it had absorbed, it understood the sudden, overwhelming distress in the woman, the frantic energy of the guards.
