It wasn't a constant grief. After carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for eighteen years, Lisa had been forced to move on or be crushed under its pressure.
Most of the time, she was ok. The summer of 2014 was nothing but a source of fun memories she used to motivate herself. Since Nine and Twelve would ave wanted her to succeed, she tried to make them proud with her writing. It was a way to remember them while staying her own person.
But sometimes, a particular shade of yellow would catch her off guard, or an ice-cold gaze was too familiar. Suddenly she'd be back at that day with the Americans, and it would take all her willpower to keep from crying in public.
The worst things were the nightmares. At the sound of gunshots, she'd sit up straight and be unable to anything but sob. Her wife had tried comforting her the first year or so it happened, but Lisa's grief consumed her like a fire. Anyone who tired to help ended up burned. The only way to combat it was to ride it out until its end.
It was terribly unfair to Lisa that she still had tears left to shed. Considering all the crying she did, she had assumed she'd run out eventually. Yet no, each nightmare seemed to only bring more and more. At this point it would be unsurprising if she drowned in them all.
Still the storm would always pass in the end. A calm then would settle over her soul, and Lisa would be able to finally start her coping routine.
A prayer for Five, hands clasped tight.
A prayer for Nine, fingers to her forehead.
A prayer for Twelve, a cross gestured over her heart.
A prayer for the Number Children as a whole, knees tucked close to her chest as she rocked back and forth.
Once her religious fever faded, she'd take out her first book, Von: the Story of the 2014 Sphinx Bombings, and read it until she drifted back to sleep.
Memories of them were etched into her soul. It was pointless and almost blasphemous to try to forget them. Still Lisa wanted to cherish the good ones that remained as long as she could.