There were many logical paths she could have followed to figure out why they liked long hair so much. All led to the past. All were grim.

Judging by the light -- a pale streak across the far wall of the cell -- it was early still. Lana lifted a curled hand, slow, for another stroke. Scalp to small of back, root to tip; dark and silky, flowing around Lana's fingers. In her sleep, Iris sighed, and nuzzled warmer, closer.

They might have a few minutes before the morning rounds, a few more forevers of presence. A long meditative exhale, and Lana noted the mattress's curve, Iris's breath fanning on her throat, the folds of nightclothes caught between them. And the strand of her own hair curled around Iris's hand, like embrace.

Another stroke, Iris's shoulder blades distant under all that soft night. She never braided it anymore. Lana wanted to ask why and, each time she looked into those faintly familiar eyes, couldn't.

There were many logical reasons for this, all of this, but Lana knew better. She closed her eyes, she drifted, and took a soft handful of her own. Nowadays, she lived in the present.