It started with the light.
Bria leaned against the window, fingers spread across the dirty panes. Outside, sunlight streamed through the leaves in golden beams, and she cocked her head toward them like a flower. Her eyes, those milk-white ones, were a strange awareness.
"I've touched this light before," she breathed.
Charlotte paused from knitting, heart faltering. "What did you say?"
Bria blinked. The odd clarity faded, disappearing like mist. "It's warm today."
She smiled, but something in it was too practiced, too empty. Charlotte smiled, too, but her chest hurt.
Later, Elias would see her standing outside, eyes squinting toward the hills. "She's remembering."
He did not reply. But he put his hand on her shoulder. And didn't remove it.
Bria had started scratching symbols into the ground with a stick. They only showed themselves at twilight, half-existent sigils and discarded runes.
Charlotte sat down beside her one night. "Where did you learn this?"
"My dreams," Bria replied. She glanced up. "There's a girl. She stands in firelight. She laughs like the world hasn't ended. She always smells like lavender."
Charlotte stilled. "And what do you do?"
Bria gazed down. "I lend her my eyes."