She saw it all, and remembers everything. The Rift took her back, and this time there was no one to pull her out. There never will be again. She knows that, and doesn't think about it, because she can't.
How long has she been here, adrift, alone, incorporeal and silent?
Does it even matter?
She'd forget it all if she could. Every inch.
But she remembers Greta. She remembers dancing somewhere, some dream. The memory of solid contact, smells, everything, like it was real. May as well have been. She prays Greta remembered the dream and hates her for it, so she won't miss her. She knows that is unlikely.
She's sorry. Sorry she left without saying. Sorry she can't make good on the promise to take her home. Try as she might she can't any of it aloud. No words without breath, without a voice to speak them. Only awareness. The Rift must have considered her a true threat, to torment her like this. A workable legacy, even if she's the only one who knows it.
And then, very suddenly, everything comes back, rushing up to her as she falls facedown on the grass, every nerve screaming, every sense overwhelmed by sudden noise and smell, cold and light, oh god, oh god, why is it doing this to her?
She hoists herself up. Central Park, of fucking course, is it hers, is it hers from before, or some other one? Her arm - it's back too, back like it was before, like nothing happened. It broke her and now it's made her whole.
Not quite.
She doesn't remember anymore, not everything. There are gaps, she can feel them, pieces of herself that are blurred and hard to look at. Ripped out like that, some of her didn't make it. Probably intentional. Once again she's been toyed with.
She remembers Greta. Greta feels full. Nothing missing there. That, at least, is something.
No phone, no idea what universe this is, or when. This is too much and she wasn't ready. She falls back into a kneel and curls over like she's about to pray; hugs herself, shaking, not noticing the man just beside her.
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How long has she been here, adrift, alone, incorporeal and silent?
Does it even matter?
She'd forget it all if she could. Every inch.
But she remembers Greta. She remembers dancing somewhere, some dream. The memory of solid contact, smells, everything, like it was real. May as well have been. She prays Greta remembered the dream and hates her for it, so she won't miss her. She knows that is unlikely.
She's sorry. Sorry she left without saying. Sorry she can't make good on the promise to take her home. Try as she might she can't any of it aloud. No words without breath, without a voice to speak them. Only awareness. The Rift must have considered her a true threat, to torment her like this. A workable legacy, even if she's the only one who knows it.
And then, very suddenly, everything comes back, rushing up to her as she falls facedown on the grass, every nerve screaming, every sense overwhelmed by sudden noise and smell, cold and light, oh god, oh god, why is it doing this to her?
She hoists herself up. Central Park, of fucking course, is it hers, is it hers from before, or some other one? Her arm - it's back too, back like it was before, like nothing happened. It broke her and now it's made her whole.
Not quite.
She doesn't remember anymore, not everything. There are gaps, she can feel them, pieces of herself that are blurred and hard to look at. Ripped out like that, some of her didn't make it. Probably intentional. Once again she's been toyed with.
She remembers Greta. Greta feels full. Nothing missing there. That, at least, is something.
No phone, no idea what universe this is, or when. This is too much and she wasn't ready. She falls back into a kneel and curls over like she's about to pray; hugs herself, shaking, not noticing the man just beside her.