She had kept the shirt.

Truthfully, she felt as if she had never taken it off. It clung to her. She could see it on herself every time she looked in the mirror. It became a sombre memory, a tangable souvinere of the day her world shattered. Irrivocable, undeniable, and eternal.

She had told Kennedy all of this, once. Kennedy didn't understand. And after a while, Willow stopped trying to make her.

Her very own rebound girl. It was not what she wanted.

She had taken the shirt out of the closet, then. Lovingly, she caressed the bleach into the crusted fabric, feeling oddly detached and more than slightly nauseated. The dark rouge stain didn't come out totally, but that was okay with her. She didn't want it to. She wanted to remember, *everyone* to remember, exactly what that delicate blouse had seen. She wanted everyone to remember the girl who had died in her arms.

She was a witch. She was a long-dead hacker. Today, she was also a prophet.

She had kept the shirt. She had bought a pistol.

She would be wearing it the day her own bullet came to claim her.