TW: Torture / Death / Mental Illness / Exile

The stool was cold under her hands — she hadn’t meant to sit. Not at first. Just to scan the crowd, just to look. But Obsidian was louder than she remembered. Busier. Full of laughter and clinking glasses and that polished kind of nightlife charm that never quite felt like it belonged to her. Irene sat anyway, still damp from the outside, her coat unbuttoned just enough to breathe.

No Jaya.

She didn’t frown, but her eyes moved with more purpose than most of the crowd’s. Quick flicks between faces, corners, doorways. She didn’t expect him to be easy to find — not with what was happening. But she’d hoped. That was the whole problem.

She rested her elbow on the bar like she had every right to be here. No different from the others. Just a woman looking for a drink, maybe company. No one needed to know what stirred underneath. What she was actually here for. The charm around her neck sat heavy beneath her shirt — hidden, quiet. Like her.

When the bartender approached — bright smile, easy confidence — Irene straightened slightly. The recognition didn’t show on her face, but her mind caught on the name. Charlotte. One of Jaya’s. She’d seen her in passing once or twice, never close enough to speak. The smile was genuine. Irene offered a smaller one in return — polite, a little tired at the edges.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft but steady, leaning in just enough for the words to cut through the ambient buzz of the room. “Actually, I’m— looking for someone.”

A pause. Measured.

“Jaya. He around?”

She didn’t let too much hope show in the question, just enough to make it casual. She kept her hands on the bar, fingers wrapped around the base of a coaster, grounding herself in something physical. Something normal.

“I can wait,” she added quickly, before Charlotte could say yes or no. “It’s not urgent.”

Another pause. The music shifted behind them — deeper bass, slower rhythm.

Her eyes flicked sideways — toward the crowd, then back.

“I’ll take whatever’s easiest in the meantime. Just— something simple.”

There was no point in drawing attention. Not now. Not here.

She could pretend to be patient. For a little while longer.

Where: Obsidian

Who: Open (1/5)

Tonight had been bustling. It was the most crowded Charlotte had seen the place and Charlotte couldn’t be happier. Jaya deserved for this place to be a success and between her and Gemma Obsidian was thriving under the new leadership.

As Charlotte was shaking a martini for a very well dressed witch on the edge of the bar, she finally noticed the time. Shit, she was overdue for a break. She had lost track of time in the crush of customers that had rolled in. As she placed the martini in front of the witch, a new customer caught her eye as they sat on a stool at the end of the bar. One more customer, she promised herself, and then she would go take her break.

She turned a beaming smile on the newcomer and nodded at them, ready to take their order.

Irene didn’t flinch at the mention of imprisonment. Just blinked, slow and tired, like the word didn’t surprise her — or maybe like it just didn’t matter here. Plenty of people came through this town with things trailing behind them, and it wasn’t her job to follow any of it home.

“February,” she echoed, half to herself. That would’ve been after she got here. After she’d unpacked more than she meant to in a house that still felt as empty as the moment they walked in. She hadn’t touched her inheritance yet. Back then, she thought she’d be in and out, keep her head down, move on. Not still here, not letting the town get under her skin.

She caught sight of the tattoos when she moved — didn’t stare, didn’t ask — just noted the language like you do a warning carved into stone. Then her eyes dropped to the parcel. The mix didn’t surprise her, though the mention of wombs did. Irene’s jaw shifted slightly — a faint, reflexive tension — but she didn’t rise to it.

“Appreciate the warning,” she said, tone steady. “Won’t add it to the tea. That blend’s for the everyday folk. Not the kind looking to sink too deep.”

A pause. She finally reached forward and pulled the parcel the rest of the way toward her, careful not to jostle it too much.

“I’ll tag it for storage,” she added. “Stephens’ll know what to do with it, if it’s meant for her.” Her voice softened a little, though not by much. “She doesn’t write much down. But she remembers everything. Like a bad habit.”

Irene let the silence sit for a beat, then looked up again, brow just slightly furrowed. “She teach you much? Or were you mostly here for the night shift?”

"Briefly, when I came hitherto from imprisonment." She has always taken little and less care in masking her nature as something not altogether mundane. She makes no bones about either her nature as a witch nor at her prickly nature. She invites conflict, because conflict often feeds that which needs be fed. Besides, she's among allies here in Tumataru;

"Took my leave come 'round February, working the late shifts here for the nightfolk and latecomers. I find shop work dreadfully boring even if the goods aren't, much more fun, dancing for wandering eyes." She rests a hand, dotted with old ancient tattoo-work - symbols and glyphic signs that will make sense aught anyone else but her - on the parcel she's set down and slides it down the counter.

"Hemlock, hogsweed, and a bundle of oily snakeroot that might find home in your Dreamless Tea. Take care though, only a dram of that if you do, lest you accidentally fallow the womb of some poor woman who simply seeks help for night terrors."

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”

She doesn’t flinch when his shoulder clips hers — just rocks with it, weight shifting like she’d braced for it long before he made the choice to move. Sharp pain blooms across her collarbone, a jolt, but not unfamiliar. Pain never is. Not anymore.

She doesn’t draw. Doesn’t reach. The blade never so much as twitches in its place beneath the coat. It’s not mercy. It’s not fear.

It’s calculation.

He walks, and she lets him. Watches the shape of him disappear into the storm, the space he leaves behind already closing like he was never there.

He doesn’t look back. He shouldn’t.

The scent of him lingers —blood, rain, something older—and she lets it fill her lungs once before letting it go. The kind of monster who chooses to walk away doesn’t need her knife in his back.

Not yet.

She’s still there long after he’s gone, the storm curling tighter around her. Hair wet, face unreadable, and something sharper coiled behind her eyes now. Not rage. Not even fear.

Resolve.

It’s not that he didn’t scare her.

END.

        the sound of caperucita’s voice becomes a monotonous, boring buzz that rails into his skull, falling in time with the rain, becoming the background music to his restlessness. hunter or not, she keeps fucking talking him in circles. fuck fairytales, fuck barking, fuck judgy eyed little knife-wielders who can’t stay off of his fucking nerves. a chase in a hurricane sounds thrilling, but it feels too much like baiting into a trap, like she’s trying to call his bluff by denying him. that’s the human part of him speaking sense, far off and distant like the water he has his back turned to. even if it’s the wolf that delivers the violence, there’s nothing more he hates than that truth, buried deep, and pulsing. he’s alive, making conscious choices, he isn’t a slave to the feral nature, the curse. not yet, anyways. he won’t make it to be matteo, but now, he has choices, no matter that he doesn’t fucking want them.

        still, it’s only partially his choice not to listen to her. all he hears are little pathetic stabs at him, trying to provoke the monster that she claims isn’t on her list. it doesn’t matter, of course, he’s done enough to deserve it, could do more right now to make it worth bringing his skin back home with her. she might not be scared, he might want to give her a reason to be, but he doesn’t care. if she’s so eager to threaten him, he’ll come back later, if the rest of the world fails to kill him after all the blood he’s thirsting for is spilled. the long kind of chase, fueled by spite. and he’s fine with messes, just loves ‘em, never once been clean. césar gives her one last dry chuckle, one last look.

        control steers him away from chiquita and her steel, her stupid wolfsbane perfume, her list. but it doesn’t quite aim right. he moves forward, blowing past her with a sharp check of her shoulder. it’s a sharp kind of pain that wakes him up with a smile, but he keeps going. if she stabs him, it’ll be in the meat of his back, because he’s walking away now, bidding her goodbye without saying anything at all, and retreating into the dark of the storm.

Irene didn’t sit right away. She hovered by the kitchen island instead, letting the smell of the takeout do most of the work as Sammy rifled through it, eyes already brighter for something warm and edible. It helped to have something to do with his hands — she could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, just a little, just enough.

The light through the window was slipping golden across the floorboards, catching in her hair and her coat like dust. She let it settle in the silence for a few breaths before answering.

“He’s not worse,” she said first, which wasn’t the same thing as better, but also wasn’t nothing. Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t hedge — just delivered it straight. Measured. Quiet.

She finally pulled out a chair and sat across from him, shrugging off her coat like it weighed too much. The sleeves of her shirt were pushed up just far enough to show faint smudges of ash and something glittery — residue of something that wasn’t quite spellwork, but close. She didn’t explain it.

When she looked up again, her eyes were rimmed darker than usual. Not in the dramatic, witchy way people always assumed. Just… tired. Deep-set, like sleep had been a luxury out of reach for more than a few nights. But her face didn’t crack. It never did.

“He’s not alone in there,” she said simply. Her fingers ghosted over the side of a napkin, folding one corner with idle precision. “That matters.”

She didn’t say what it had cost — not just the magic, but the time. The strain. The hours spent crouched beside a still body with salt lining her lashes and the smell of scorched rosemary in the walls.

And she definitely didn’t say how wrong it had felt to sense Riven’s signature in the sandscape of Shiv’s unconscious — familiar and twisted and present. That stayed between her, Shiv, and Thera.

But she met Sammy’s eyes across the kitchen table, and there was no flinch in her voice when she added, “He’s going to be okay.”

There was a steadiness to the words. Not bravado. Not blind optimism. Just a thing spoken because it was true — even if she couldn’t tell him how she knew. “You know I wouldn’t bullshit you,” she said softly. “Not about something like this.”

And maybe it wasn’t enough to erase the circles under her eyes or the tension she still carried in her shoulders. But it was the best she could offer, short of dragging him into the dream herself — and she wasn’t ready to open that door to anyone else. Not yet. Too fragile. Too... unfinished.

She let her gaze drift toward the back window, where the twins shrieked over some messy game involving sticks and a bucket of water. The sound didn’t ease the coil in her chest, but it grounded her.

“You’re doing the right thing, staying with them,” she said, voice softer now. “They need you more than he does, in this moment.”

A beat.

“But when he wakes up, he’s probably going to ask what took you so long.”

That, at least, earned a tiny smile — thin and crooked, barely there, but real.

“How are you holding up?”

The front door didn’t need to be locked, not when the twins were running between the front and back yards faster than he could follow. He’d taken to pacing in the kitchen, only occasionally glancing out the window to make sure his step-siblings were still making potions out of mud and leaves in the backyard, his mind on other things. 

The situation with Mr. Shiv was a royal fuck-up. Two weeks, and he’d let himself think that he was just on an extended hunt. He should have raised the alarm days ago, should have at least asked around! He should have done something, not just— 

A voice from the hall pulled him out of his train of thought. Irene was standing in his front hall, a takeout bag in hand. 

Irene was nice. Good to work with, if a bit spooky and ominous. After getting the news of Mr. Shiv’s injury to Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Castillo, she was the next (and only) person he told. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust any other hunters, just... Irene was a lot more discreet than them. He couldn’t really picture Nico reacting in a calm and measured way to the news that a hunter in a coma was being taken care of in a shop run by a witch for the past two weeks. Irene, at the very least, was discreet and clever, and was nice enough to lurk in the threshold so she could easily turn and leave if she wasn’t wanted. 

She was wanted. Especially with food, an easy reminder that, yeah, he had definitely forgotten to make himself lunch when he’d made the twins their sandwiches earlier. It was easier to ignore his body’s signals to eat and rest when he was worrying. ”Sorry, I didn’t hear you, come in! Yeah, I got distracted, thank you.”

He ushered her in, over towards the chairs around the kitchen island, where he was able to keep an eye on the twins out the windows as they spoke. He shrugged away any attempt to ask after his own well being, instead focusing on picking over the takeout food gratefully.

“You saw him? Any changes? I dropped by the day I got the note, he seemed like a 4 on the Glasgow coma scale, which is, uh...” He trailed off. A score of 4, after two weeks? That was more often than not a sign to start getting a funeral plan in order. “Bad. Really bad, for an injury. Magic might make it better, or different, but by regular medical scales, he should be in a long-term ward. Is he doing any better? Responsive, moving, even reacting at all to touch or noise?”

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

On an average day, Irene’s pockets are a quiet reflection of who she is — practical, private, and always prepared.

She usually carries her keys, looped with a spare hair tie — always black, always stretched a little too thin from use. There’s almost always a crumpled receipt or two she’s forgotten to throw out, tucked next to a folded grocery list or a sticky note with something half-crossed out.

Wired headphones are a constant — no earbuds or Bluetooth nonsense. She likes the certainty of something that won’t disconnect without warning.

Irene’s eyes flicked up just long enough to catch the shape of the woman behind the counter before dropping back to her screen. One corner of her mouth tugged — not quite a frown, not quite amusement.

“Goody Stephens isn’t in,” she said simply. “Hasn’t been for a while.”

She finally set the tablet aside, screen darkening with a quiet blink, and leaned back in the chair like someone bracing for a shift in weather. The stranger —no, not quite a stranger, not if she knew where the burdock root was kept and didn’t flinch at the smell of the drying room —had that familiar kind of confidence that came with previous access.

“She’s not here,” Irene said, tone dry but not unkind. “But I can take the parcel.”

She didn’t move to grab it. Instead, her gaze followed Briar’s fingers drumming on the wood. The sound grated just enough to set her nerves on edge, but she said nothing about it. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “New-ish.” That was all she offered at first.

As for the dreamless tea, she gave the barest shrug. “Nothing fancy. Valerian, skullcap, pinch of nettle. Enough to knock out a restless hedgewitch without leaving ‘em foggy in the morning.” She paused. “Does what it says. No bells. No vampire facials.” That part almost sounded like a joke. Almost.

Then, softer —less like a statement, more like a test, “You worked here before?”

"Oh I wasn't aware Goody Stephens closed shop til dawn, given... well..."

Best not be outing things to new faces, Briar - a bit of subtlety, indeed. This one might be soft-headed, might need held by the hand; it has slowly dawned on her in her some five months living in this town that not all are quite so well equipped to handle the mania of the second, darker world lurking below the obvious.

"I'm simply here to drop off some fresh herbs for her; a gift in exchange for a favor paid; is she not here? Zounds, I'd have spoken with her."

Briar adjusts a parcel under hear arm, drums her heavy acrylics along a counter as she peers about the shop before settling on Irene. "You're new - or I simply haven't been back in a while." Then she's behind the counter, like she knows her way around; Goodwoman Kiri had helped her along in work for those first few months. Now she has slightly more exciting employment, but she's a soft spot for this little shop still.

She leans on the counter then, looking up into the woman's eyes, trying to suss out a first impression. "Dreamless tea, though? Do tell."

She never knows, with things as they are. Things are sold with strange names that are all smoke and spice and no delivery on substance. She'll never forget the disappointment that was vampire facial.

END.

Irene stepped out into the night without hurry, coat already buttoned against the bite in the wind. The door clicked shut behind them, shop light spilling warm and gold onto the pavement for a breath before dimming again. She didn't say much at first — she rarely did. But her gaze flicked once toward Juniper and lingered a beat longer than it needed to. Not exactly assessing. Not quite protective, either. Just… noting. Marking presence.

When Juniper spoke, Irene let the quiet settle before answering — like she was giving the question room to breathe before deciding how to respond.

“Coffee,” she said simply. “Black’s fine.”

Her voice didn’t soften, but there was a steadiness to it now. Like she’d decided something, even if it didn’t show.

She walked a few paces, hands in her pockets, the sound of their steps meeting damp asphalt and the distant murmur of streetlights humming to life overhead.

“Appreciate the offer,” she added, a little lower, like the air had thinned around the words. “Not necessary, but… it’d be welcome.”

She didn’t mention she’d be getting some anyway. Not for the taste, not even for the ritual. Just to keep her eyes sharp when sleep kept missing its mark. She’d spent too many nights lately counting hours by the bottom of a mug. But she didn’t say that out loud. Didn't need to. The walk stretched ahead of them, shadows curling long, and the city had the kind of hush that always came just before something tried its luck.

Better to stay alert. Better to keep moving.

And for once, she didn’t mind the company.

Irene watched her emerge—fluid, effortless. Like the sea didn’t just allow her, but had shaped itself around her coming. The kind of grace that made the dock feel artificial beneath Irene’s boots. A clumsy invention. An interruption to something older.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the railing, just once.

“I’m not here to trade,” she said after a beat, voice still quiet, still certain. “Troubles or otherwise.”

She didn’t smile, but something like acknowledgment flickered across her face —thin and weathered, like light through stormglass. She wasn’t startled by the woman’s ease, nor her offer. The world had stopped surprising her a long time ago. But this—this small act of being seen and not dismissed—had a kind of weight that pressed different.

“I’ve got shelter if I need it,” Irene added, gaze drifting toward the churn of black water. “This isn’t about dry clothes.”

The sea cracked louder behind her, a gust pushing against the edge of the dock like a warning. Irene didn’t flinch.

“You jumped like someone who knew exactly where they’d land.” Her eyes cut back to her. “That’s rare.”

The wind pulled her hood loose then, tangling strands of hair against her cheek. She didn’t fix it.

“You don’t owe me company,” she said finally. “But I won’t say no to it.”

And still, she stayed where she was —hands steady on salt-slick wood, boots rooted in storm-soft ground, eyes on the woman who had come out of the sea like a story no one dared finish telling.

She heard her. Not by any human range. But she was no human.

Ha-Jeong didn’t really want to leave the water. The stranger was correct. People shouldn’t be swimming in this. Shouldn’t even be out in this. Yet she was. Despite her apologies and interruptions, this human still stood there. A silly thing yet her countenance held such sadness she was reluctant to leave the young woman alone.

In a few strokes Jeong was at the dock again and with little effort hoisted herself out of the water to perch below the forlorn girl. “While the sea will take your troubles sonyeo, sometimes it isn’t quite worth the price.”

She looked up at the girl. “The main facility isn’t far if you are looking for some sort of dry place, but I also won’t interfere if you wish to somehow wrestle with your demons.” Ha-Jeong leaned back on her arms tilting her head up towards the rain. On another person this stance could have looked relaxed but it had been centuries since almost any pose she could take had been able to convey that.

Irene didn’t answer at first.

She just stood there, half turned, coat stretched between them like a line drawn in wet chalk — fading, but still there. Allie’s words landed softly, but they lingered, like pollen in her lungs. You’re a pretty thing. She huffed out something like a laugh, but it was quiet, more breath than sound. The kind of sound that wanted to be disbelief but came out something gentler.

There was no way Allie knew what she was saying. Not really. Not when she looked at Irene like that — like there was no blood on her hands, no sharp edges tucked behind her ribs. Like this world could still be something soft, and Irene someone who could hold it without breaking it.

The rain kept on falling, slower now, steadier — but the sky hadn’t eased. Thunder growled in the distance, low and mean, a reminder that the storm hadn’t finished making its point. Irene glanced up, jaw tight, then down again at the soaked hem of Allie’s dress, the way she shivered under the weight of the cold even while smiling like she belonged to it.

“You’re gonna get yourself struck by lightning if you keep dancing around like that,” Irene muttered, and there was no bite in it — just that soft, tired kind of affection she didn’t hand out freely. “Not a poetic way to go, Allie. Moment’s over. Come on.”

She pulled the coat tighter around her — around them — and her hand lingered at Allie’s back a second longer than necessary. A quiet thing. A steady thing. Something close to safety.

Irene looked at her then, really looked, like maybe she was trying to memorize the shape of someone who still believed the world didn’t bite. And maybe that was why she didn’t say the hundred things clawing at the back of her throat — all the reasons they shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be close, shouldn’t pretend like pretty things could live long when they weren’t careful.

         allie shakes her head, it’s the easiest thing in the world. of course irene isn’t dangerous, matching with her is even less so. it’s natural, it’s perfect, it’s lovely. it’s the perfect day for it, even if the storm turns angrier, wilder, less forgiving for girls who are afraid of them. or at least, girls that are supposed to be afraid of them. allie’s not scared, now. she has irene. and this time, she doesn’t stiffen, or pull back, or watch her with a cautious, careful eye that makes allie feel like there’s a wall between them, even when she’s right next to her. now, allie tries, and irene’s letting her in. even if it’s almost, a whisper of a touch, a slight feeling- a catch of softness, like allie’s closing her eyes and running a finger along her surface. it’s something, and allie holds onto it. the fondness stays in her eyes, watching irene’s reaction to the flower. she’s not mad, she’s not angry, she’s not going to shove allie in the water and leave her behind. allie hadn’t done anything wrong, she hadn’t hurt her.

         it’s why she listens, it’s why she only pouts, doesn’t protest or argue when irene draws them away. her eyes only plead for the whimsy to return for only a moment, before she’s swept under irene’s coat. it had only been the slightest offer of closeness, and she takes it eagerly. it’s only then that she’d considered she had, maybe, been shivering from the cold, and had yet to notice. 

         because there, closer to her friend, it’s warm. she realizes then, the state of her, sopping wet and shoeless. there’s no regret, but she does feel bad for irene’s coat. allie goes, finding it easy to clear a way through the storm, so long as she wasn’t alone, so long as it wasn’t her idea. irene wants her to be safe, so she will. she wants her out of the danger. and, despite their completely separate definitions of danger, allie wants that too, because she does.  “ are you kidding? of course it is! i’m bare-footed, and you’re a pretty thing. ”  she giggles, her finger going to touch the yellow bloom tucked behind her ear, making sure it doesn’t fall.  “ we’re here, we’re meant to be here. if we weren’t meant to, we wouldn’t be. ”  maybe she can get her dance with her, after all.