He visits every day.
She doesn't recall who he is — but that's all right, because at least he still has her; in her eyes, he's probably nothing more than a friend from last year, from a time which has slipped from her memory. It's okay because she's not bones and dust in a shallow grave; it's okay because she smiles like she never did before, with none of that brittle self-awareness born from the long shadows cast by Medea.
"Junpei … do you remember?" she asks him one day.
"Huh?"
"That dream I told you about. The one I kept having — of this person I wanted to find."
"Y-yeah, I do. What about it?"
Her hands are small and cool, just like he remembers, before he got afraid of touching her, in case she vanished into thin air. They're lined with faded imprints of old scars that creep up behind loose sleeves; he's memorised them gradually, has mapped out the topography of her skin from hours spent watching her draw. She has inksmears on her fingertips and leaves graphite smudges on the white covers.
It's been a long time since he's allowed himself to think about holding her hands.
"I'm glad I found you," she says.