On Lana's tenth birthday, her Aunt Nell gives her a lace handkerchief that once belonged to her mother. Of course, there was something more extravagant than that, because Nell was never one for simplicity, but it was the handkerchief that meant the most to her. She feels connected to her mother now more than ever.
It isn't much, but she feels that now she has something tangible; something more than memories to show her that her mom was real. She looks up from her through examination of the lace and her eyes lock with those of a boy with dark hair standing in the corner. Bright eyes flicker in detached amusement as their other schoolmates and friends run around and frolic.
He gives her a smile, that strange, sad smile of his and she can't help but think of how the lace handkerchief in her hand reminds her of Clark. The designs so beautiful and intricate, one might even say too intricate, was exactly like Clark Kent. He is a walking contradiction. Not quite opaque but not quite translucent either, like lace held up against the light. It reveals nothing more than a glimpse of the hand beneath it.
His smile is enigmatic, speaking volumes, she returns it.
