When Riza thought back to her earliest memories, she saw a lonely manor sitting atop a distant hill, removed from the rest of the village further down the road. Old wooden walls, creaking floorboards, and a dim office light came to mind.
Then there was a figure, hunched over his desk, marking calculations, tracing arrays, moving like something possessed.
If she pushed herself to look farther back, however, she could almost discern the contours of kind and smiling visage, a wisp of golden hair, and the warmth of two strong arms cradling her close. This tiny memory - almost a flicker of a dream - was always veiled in gold. Light hair, caramel eyes, the steady vibrations from the woman's chest as she cooed gently at her daughter's ear, the simple comfort of being held and loved…
At times Riza asked herself whether this memory was real, or if it was only a construct of her imagination - a distant hope, a hidden desire, a comfort of sorts, to compensate for what was missing.