Meanwhile somewhere in the recesses of time, Zora found herself in a small grove within the forest, the drone of cicadas sustaining her feeling afloat in E minor. It was only a patch of wood like every other patch and part, remote and unassuming—lost amongst all anonymity of the forest floor. Dark and hidden without a trail to be discovered, she peered about her. And just like that she was truly alone with her thoughts. No one would find her there, ‘tis but a cozy needle in a haystack—a ghost amongst the living. She remembered something important as she leaned her back against a middle-aged maple. Her bare toes picked at and scrunched themselves at the damp dirt and fallen leaves, thinking back to and conjuring the memory of a certain dream. Eyes closed, she parted her lips and exhaled an open-breath hum. Fire seared across her mind’s eye, flash, flash! Hot white, then rich, fluid pastel orange. She held her ground, fed the flames its song until the invocation finally swallowed itself clasped shut, and a memory thing was brought out from the now self-sustaining golden generation of magic. There was no going back. And it occurred to her that her heart would not be the same. No one really is when you look at them twice…
“You will always remember me when you look,” a distant voice groaned in the wind, breathing through the taller larches above.
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