She walked in with blistered feet and a map inked directly onto her skin. Roads, rivers, names of cities I’ve never heard spoken in centuries.
She asked no questions. Only pointed at her temple, then her heart.
I gave her a drink made with memorygrass and the rind of a forgotten bellfruit. Bitter. Anchoring. It turns the mind inward while softening the echoes.
She wept when she finished. But not for sorrow—something else. Relief, perhaps.
Before she left, she reached into her satchel and offered nothing.
Nothing at all.
But the space she had stood in remained warm for hours after she was gone.
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