Luna remembered, later, a soft singing voice, singing lullabies of her own imagination. She remembered cuddling up in the dark against the monsters, and how the voice sang them away. She remembered playing in the garden, remembered glistening cold sparks and dancing through the stream, remembered warm touches and soft kisses on her bruises and words encouraging her to try again. Some said they weren't magical words, but they were, deeply and truly.
She remembered the rain at the funeral, that was as funerals should be.
She never remembered a face, but a face wasn't needed.
A face meant nothing.
If that was the only thing her mother had taught her: that she had.