tracenda
(n.) things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence
Chapter 10: Tracenda
"Do you think she could be the little girl?"
"Did Granny tell you that?"
Swan awakens to a haze in her head, and Wendy's hushed voice grabs her attention. She lies still, eyes sealed shut, tuning in to the clandestine conversation wafting in from the kitchen.
"I'd be lying if I said it didn't cross my mind as well," Liam confesses.
She has to pay close attention to hear them. She feels a bit guilty for not letting them know she's awake, but her curiosity is stronger. "Even before Granny mentioned it?"
Liam dodges Wendy's inquiry, his movements suggesting a rendezvous with the coffee machine. Yesterday, they tiptoed around her like secret agents, preserving her slumber. Swan appreciates their considerate nature, teetering on the verge of abandoning her covert eavesdropping. Yet, Liam drops another breadcrumb.
"Do you remember August's exhibition?"
The exhibition about the little girl. Swan faintly smiles but quickly composes her features into a calm expression.
Swan found herself captivated by the enigmatic allure of paintings she hadn't laid eyes on, only glimpsing their photographic avatars. If the images managed to dazzle her through the mundane medium of a brochure, she couldn't help but wonder about the magic they might unleash in person. The painter's delicate strokes and pastel palette weren't the sole enchantments; it was the very act of depiction, a unique lens through which the world was unveiled. Take, for instance, "The First Snowflake" – an intricately detailed snowflake dominated the foreground, a masterful dance of precision, while behind it, an ethereal green glow lingered like a mysterious secret. It wasn't as if the color possessed eyes, yet Swan felt an inexplicable connection, as if a gaze latched onto hers – a gaze that somehow felt like her own.
"Well, that was my first serious work," Wendy replies. "Honestly, I still don't understand why August trusted me with it when we were practically strangers."
Did Wendy take those photos in the brochure? She suspected that Wendy didn't just capture images; she concocted visual spells. The challenge of encapsulating the essence of a painting seemed formidable, but Wendy, it seemed, wielded a camera like a magical wand. Swan couldn't help but wonder about the snapshots of herself. Wendy had mentioned post-processing, a cryptic realm involving lights, cropping, and other enigmatic rituals that Swan couldn't fathom.
"Well," Liam interjected, clearing his throat, "Granny might have pulled a few strings."
"I knew it!"
"Lower your voice; you'll wake Swan," her father cautioned.
Swan's internal chaos cranks up a notch, the guilty conscience rattling its chains and prodding her to break the silence. Yet, she's caught in the tantalizing web of curiosity, itching to see where this conversation will pirouette. Claiming she's well-acquainted with Wendy would be like saying she's fluent in Martian; the time spent with Wendy pales in comparison to Liam or Killian. Nevertheless, Swan knows just enough to sense that extracting the core of Wendy's musings might unlock a treasure trove of insights. Wendy, the maestro of conversation, isn't interested in small talk – her mind seems to be a bustling marketplace of ideas, eager to flood the world all at once. And while these thoughts may not scream mundane, they certainly scream noteworthy. Swan's intrigue deepens as she wonders about Wendy's take on the mysterious little girl and whether Wendy envisions her as the one.
"Sorry," Wendy breathes out, and Swan can practically taste the effort it takes for her to keep a lid on things. "I've tried so many times to get Granny to spill the beans, but she never confessed."
"You earned that gig, and strings or not, August thought the same," Swan commends Liam for his knack of diplomacy and care in every word he utters.
"Well, even if he wasn't, once he saw the pictures, all skepticism took a hike," Swan nearly cracks a smile because Wendy's grin is contagious enough to make a Cheshire cat jealous. Wendy doesn't boast; she radiates a glow of self-pride, having defied her own lofty standards. "Sure, if his paintings were a flop, mine would've been too. But what do August's paintings have to do with Swan?"
Ah, the million-dollar question that Swan is just dying to have answered
"In that painting depicting the girl's return, she's wearing a red coat," Liam explains with contemplative tones in his voice. "When I saw Swan in the middle of the snowfall at the lake, it was like looking at that painting. Exactly like that."
"Perhaps just a coincidence."
"Maybe, yes."
"Granny would scoff and say, 'Coincidence my ass'."
Swan clamps down on a grin. Wendy effortlessly channels Granny's fervor, giving the casual remark an extra dash of spice.
"Yes, spot on," Liam concurs.
"You know, Dad, I never told you this, but…when I was younger, I often thought about that girl," "Killian kept hounding you about her, and I'd wonder if he secretly wished she was his niece. I felt jealous, then guilty, because, well, she was an orphan, and I had the whole family shebang. If not for me, maybe you'd have considered adopting her..."
"You're a kind-hearted girl, Wendy," her father interjects, cradling the torrent of words in warmth. "But don't dwell on this. We couldn't have adopted her, for sure. It came up, but... your mother and I both knew it wouldn't work, and we wouldn't have met the criteria. Killian never thought of her as a potential niece."
"I know, he loves me," Wendy chimes in with a giggle.
Killian genuinely cares for her. Despite his usual facade of emotional detachment, especially when playing the part of an icy recluse, his demeanor softens when he looks at his niece. Swan appreciates those moments when Killian reveals a more tender side; it makes her feel genuinely valued by him. If she entertains the idea that she might be the little girl, it's not surprising that she craves affection and a sense of belonging. Perhaps the warmth she feels here is due to the genuine care and attention she receives. Maybe her past experiences have lacked such kindness, which is why the prospect of remembering scares her more each day. Her life could be less than ideal, something she doesn't cherish, although it's hard to imagine that in the current atmosphere of intrigue, with the world brimming with secrets waiting to be uncovered. She hopes that, when her memories return, she won't lose the fascination with this newfound discovery.
"Do you know who adopted her?" Wendy asks gently.
"Wendy, I can't discuss that," Liam deflects the question promptly.
"No need for details. Just tell me – are they still alive?" her voice carries a mix of uncertainty and concern, touching Swan.
"No."
"I've considered numerous reasons why no one's searching for her, but if she's the little girl, then it means she doesn't have a family, right?" Sadness lingers in Wendy's words.
"Likely, she doesn't."
Swan herself can't pinpoint why these words hurt her, but they do. Even if she's not the little girl, and perhaps not related to her at all. But contemplating the possibility of having no one – a likely scenario since no one seems to be searching for her – feels like a heavy burden on her chest. Not having a family is one thing, but what does it say about a person when even friends are absent? What kind of person could she truly be if her disappearance went unnoticed by everyone? It's a disheartening and challenging thought that maybe she lacks something inherently lovable.
"I like her, Dad, I really do, but... I'm afraid that she's not exactly who she seems to be now," she confesses, and Swan can practically hear her own fears echoing in those words.
"What do you mean?"
"In the photos I took of her, sometimes she seems... distant. When we weren't goofing around, I simply asked her to look straight ahead... she went all icy. Sounds crazy, I get it, but it's like the room caught a chill. There's this one picture…the corner of it is all blurry, with a faint frosty touch. I zoomed in and it really looks like that."
"Probably just a camera hiccup."
"I don't know, my camera has never had such an issue."
Wendy speaks not with venom but more with a mix of concern and bewilderment. Swan gets where she's coming from. There are times she senses an unexplainable chill creeping through her, urging her to keep a safe distance, to make a quick exit.
"I'm a bit worried about Killian," the girl adds even softer than before, like she's spilling classified info. Swan feels for her; she shouldn't be wrestling with such thoughts – it's normal to fret about her uncle. But, let's be real and slightly grim, she is also worried about Killian. There's an undeniable something between them, and she can't figure out who's more ensnared in it. While she's genuinely gotten to know Killian in the past few days, she's still a girl who might just be a figment of imagination.
"Because of Swan?" Liam raises an eyebrow, surprised, and Swan appreciates that he hadn't even entertained that notion.
"Nope, not at all. I'm convinced there's no other girl who'd suit him like Swan. But I'm wary of the Swan that's hiding behind the curtain."
So, according to Wendy, the current Swan is a perfect match for Killian? Why does the thought send a ripple through her heart?
"You know, Wendy, if Swan's memories come back, she won't be the same person she used to be. These days will have a lasting impact on her."
Oh, Swan is banking on that with more optimism than a cat with a fresh catnip toy. She likes being who she is now, with or without memories. Even if her past comes knocking, she's not exchanging her present for anything.
"I hope for that too, and it's strange, not just for Killian, but... it would be a shame if Swan ceased to exist."
This time, Swan can't keep the grin under wraps, attempting to bury it in the pillow like a scandalous secret. She doesn't want Wendy to realize she overheard the conversation. Wendy would probably feel uncomfortable, although there's no reason for it; she didn't say anything that Swan herself isn't worried about. But it feels good that she would essentially be missed, that Wendy cares so much about her.
It's peculiar: sometimes she thinks of herself as two separate individuals – even putting it delicately, it's a bit of a dissociative state, which is quite unsettling. Killian is right; they need to go to the lake today. If her brain decides to throw a "Welcome Back" party, at least she won't be playing Sherlock about herself – well, if the memories decide to grace them with an appearance at all.
As she mentally revisits the Killian escapade from the night, her face starts burning up. That kiss... nope, not pondering that right now. She'll be redder than a lobster on a beach if she does. Time for some Oscar-worthy pretending-to-be-asleep skills. Instead, she diverts her thoughts to the little girl, the paintings, and Granny's grand plan of chatting up the artist. If the man doesn't mind, they'll visit him someday to see those paintings that still exist.
Swan really wants to see them in person, mainly because she's keen on the paintings and, of course, because she might be that little girl. There's an enchanting aura around the legend of the little girl – maybe because her origin story is more elusive than Waldo, and currently, Swan herself is playing hide-and-seek with her own past. Maybe both of them escaped from the fairy world – the thought is comforting even if she can't truly believe it.
Swan breathes evenly, listening to the sounds of Wendy and Liam getting ready her mind meandering through the gallery of paintings, eventually diving back into the luxurious abyss of slumber. As her eyelids flutter open once more, she's greeted by a harmonious silence. Unsure if she dozed for a mere wink or a full-blown catnap, she continues her stealthy eavesdropping, but the apartment persists in its hushed tranquility. With a theatrical yawn, she liberates herself from the clutches of the blanket.
Her gaze searches for the wall-mounted clock, and when she sees that it's past noon, she momentarily thinks her eyes are playing tricks on her. After a vigorous eye-rubbing session, she realizes that she was indeed more tired than she felt in the morning. Venturing to the kitchen, she pours herself the remaining coffee, heats it up, and adds flavor before retreating to the couch for a caffeine-infused encore.
Perched with her feet claiming dominion over the coffee table, she decides to take a hot bath. Speculating that Killian is lost in the abyss of slumber (because, obviously, he wouldn't abandon her without a verbal farewell, and given their nocturnal escapades, his body is likely staging a protest for some well-deserved rest), Swan isn't in the mood for further languor. The allure of a bath, especially after discovering the olfactory symphony of Wendy's bath bombs, proves irresistible. She doesn't know if she used to pamper herself with such scents before, but if her memories return, and she returns home (wherever that home may be), she'll definitely get the cherry-scented one – her favorite, a natural and light fragrance that doesn't overpower but gently envelops.
Post-coffee, she luxuriates in the cascading water, stepping into the bathtub only after coaxing the tap into silence. The warm embrace of the hot water becomes a sensual dance on her skin, a soothing immersion that unfolds like a gentle reverie. As she leans back, tilting her head and surrendering to the moment, she finally allows her thoughts to drift towards the night.
It still boggles her mind that she summoned the courage to sneak into Killian's room and serenade him. Uncertain if it would have any effect, the melody lingered in her thoughts as she tossed and turned in bed, eventually evolving into a fantastic excuse to share a moment with him.
A grin of sheer delight plays upon her lips.
Recalling Killian's kiss floods her senses – a sensation beyond her wildest expectations. The reality surpassed her imagination by leaps and bounds. Their bodies pressed together, she could feel the palpable desire emanating from him, and when his touch grazed her breast – the mere recollection sends shivers cascading through her.
And then, a bold question tiptoes into her musings.
Would the symphony of sensations be the same if she decided to embark on a solo performance?
Swan, still with closed eyes, cautiously slides her hand to her chest. The nipple greets her touch with a firm response, yet the sensation is a far cry from the touch of Killian.
Killian's hand, substantially larger, envelops hers completely, and even through the fabric of her shirt, she could sense its warmth. He explored her with an eagerness and longing that suggested insatiable desire. In her mind, she visualizes herself in his bed, his body pressing intimately against hers, his hand expertly cupping her breast. Her heartbeat quickens, accompanied by the yearning ache intensifying between her legs.
With a hint of hesitation, she positions her other hand on her belly, then gradually slides it downward, venturing into the territory where desire pulsates fervently.
A soft sigh escapes her lips as she gently begins to caress herself. However, in her imaginative reverie, it's Killian's touch she envisions. She's aware that his fingers would offer a superior sensation, stroking her in an entirely different way, promising a wealth of pleasure.
Her movements halt abruptly as the bathroom door creaks open. Frozen in place, one hand resting on her chest, the other between her legs, she finds herself incapable of any motion. She doesn't even dare draw a breath as she watches Killian, with tousled hair, shuffle towards the toilet.
"Uhm... Killian," the voice that escapes her sounds almost unrecognizable, laced with a startled squeak.
As he turns towards her, she conducts a lightning-quick assessment of her hand's recent whereabouts. Hastily relinquishing her breast, she plunges deeper into the bathtub, as if the bubbles could cloak her recent one-woman show.
"Apologies, didn't know you were here," he mumbles, still in the haze of half-slumber. Swan registers his sleep-draped appearance with a twinge of relief, sinking further into the tub until the water reaches a chin-covering level.
"Yeah, noticed," she mumbles, praying her face isn't broadcasting her inner steam room of embarrassment.
Killian's gaze shifts from her knee to her face, a slow realization dawning in his still-drowsy eyes. The widening of his eyes is practically a cinematic zoom-in moment.
"I... I'll go," he croaks.
"Okay," Swan exhales.
Yet, Killian remains rooted, a living sculpture of stupefaction. Swan nibbles her lip, her eyes momentarily straying to his mouth, reminiscent of the nighttime escapades where she became intimately acquainted with the touch, the taste, the sheer artistry of his lips. A gulp echoes in the bathroom as she steels herself to meet his gaze. Killian's eyes, glazed and bewildered, seem to be navigating uncharted territories of their own.
"Killian..."
"I'm going."
His words hang in the humid air, but his inertia continues. Swan valiantly attempts to keep her focus on his eyes, yet in a fleeting moment, her gaze embarks on an unsanctioned expedition to entirely different, very lively territories.
Killian snaps back to reality, making a swift exit from the bathroom with a throat clearing that could rival a cat coughing up a hairball.
Swan, rolling her eyes heavenward, takes a dramatic deep breath. Well, it was only a matter of time before this embarrassing rendezvous unfolded. Another tick on the checklist of awkward moments, and she can now officially add this to her repertoire.
Despite her attempts at a post-bathroom zen revival, relaxation eludes her like a slippery eel. The notion of picking up where she left off is laughable, buried beneath layers of residual embarrassment. Swiftly rinsing off, Swan tiptoes out of the bathroom, encountering Killian who has set up camp at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of coffee as his refuge. Swan, playing it cool, heads to the counter, crafts her second coffee of the day with an air of practiced nonchalance, and gracefully assumes her seat across from him. The avoidance of eye contact becomes a silent pact, yet she can sense his gaze, an unseen presence she'd rather not acknowledge. With the cup cradled in her hands, she sips cautiously, attempting an air of normalcy.
"Swan?" Killian's inquiry pierces the air, and though she refrains from meeting his gaze, a sixth sense tingles, telling her that a smirk has taken residence at the corner of his mouth—an impish grin that screams he knows exactly what she were doing.
"Please, Killian, channel your inner gentleman," she shoots him a reproachful look, fully aware that it's akin to fighting a dragon with a toothpick.
"What were you up to in the tub?" his impudence levels rise, and his smile morphs into a positively devilish expression.
"Where do you get the idea that I was up to anything? Except for bathing, of course," she asserts, standing her ground. No surrender, even if he's holding the trump card of knowledge.
"You blushed more than usual." Killian delivers the blow with a cheeky flourish, leaving her grappling with a response amidst the wreckage of her dignity.
Swan locks eyes with Killian, a telltale flush tinting her cheeks. But she refuses to let embarrassment dictate the narrative. She's in her thirties, after all, and an interest in sex is only natural – who wouldn't be curious? Who'd pass judgment on her for, let's say, a little exploration?
Turning her attention back to Killian, she finds him enjoying this tête-à-tête with a teasing grin, clearly reveling in the playful banter. Swan responds with a coy smile and a shrug. He chuckles, a sound that's both soft and gruff, a delightful harmony to the brewing mischief in his eyes. He's not about to let the subject slip away, but neither is she. It's a game of verbal tennis, and she's ready for the volley.
Waiting for the opportune moment, she watches Killian taking a sip of his coffee, then lets her words dance into the space between them.
"Well, maybe I've discovered some hidden corners of my body that I hadn't before, all while imagining that you were the one doing it," she declares, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes matching the cheekiness of his earlier inquiry.
Killian, caught off guard, chokes on his coffee, coughing up a symphony of surprise and she observes with a sense of triumph.
"You're killing me," he groans, rubbing his chest in mock agony.
"You asked," she innocently shrugs.
"I regret it already," Killian mutters, still nursing his chest.
She lets out a tinkling laugh. "Oh, come on! You love imagining what I did."
His gaze ignites with a deep red, simmering glow. "I'd love to see it even more."
She blinks in surprise. Suddenly, the kitchen feels a few degrees warmer, and she's left grappling with the heat of the conversation.
"Really?"
Killian laughs, a devilish twinkle in his eye. "Really."
Swan contemplates the prospect of a private performance in front of Killian, finding the idea... immeasurably awkward. And yet, the intensity of his current gaze, laced with unabashed desire, whispers a tantalizing suggestion – a suggestion that, against her better judgment, begins to seem alluring.
She tries to shoo away these scandalous mental images, but they persist like unruly party crashers. Vivid images surface: a bed, her lying provocatively, him seated across from her, raptly observing every deliberate motion. The ambient light dances, shadows flickering with the glow of small flames and the smoky haze of candles. Killian, half-naked, his chest rising and falling in rhythm, dark hairs catching sporadic glimmers. Swan, intentionally caressing herself in a slow, deliberate dance, savoring the escalating desire until they both succumb to an irresistible frenzy...
She forcefully shakes her head, attempting to dispel the seductive mirage.
Jesus, where do these thoughts even come from?
Killian regards her with a look that suggests he's well aware of the steamy cinema playing in her mind—and, oddly, he seems quite agreeable to the script.
A slow, unstoppable surge of heat envelops her entire being. The ache between her legs heightens, her breasts become taut, breath falters, and her mouth feels dry. The desire for Killian is palpable, a yearning that tempts her to leap up and pull him onto the couch, or casually stroll to the sofa, shedding layers with nonchalance, before reclining on the bed, her back to him...
"I think a walk outside would do us good right now," she breathes, hoping to banish these shameless visions. Her imagination, evidently more provocatively vivid than she realized, needs reigning in.
Desire gradually recedes from Killian's gaze, his lips forming a somber line.
Maybe, just maybe, bringing up this mental escapade wasn't the brightest idea, Swan scolds herself.
"You're right. Let's take advantage of the nice weather," he agrees.
She steals a glance through the window, the echoes of sparks crackling between them almost audible, leaving behind a lingering smokiness. A tangible tension tiptoes into the air, and even the light seems to have traded its vibrant hues for a more worn, sepia-toned charm.
The weather outside plays coy – none of the dreary overcast from the past few days, and the wind has given up its tree-branch acrobatics. It's the perfect scene for a lakeside stroll, but the mere thought ties her stomach into a miniature sailor's knot. She doesn't want to move, not even enough to lift her coffee mug. If she stays perfectly still, maybe time will have the courtesy to hit the pause button.
Silence wraps up their coffee routine. As she glides towards the sink, Killian positions himself behind her, his hand and prosthetic finding her waist, drawing her in with his chest against her back. She leans into the embrace, a sense of tranquility enveloping her. Though she knows this interlude won't last, she's thankful that, for a fleeting moment, the tension surrenders to the present.
His lips tenderly touch her neck, a sensation so right, so effortlessly natural. It feels as though they have always been like this, as if it's not the first time Killian embraces her with such ease. Swan sighs, cinches her grip on Killian's forearm, and then gracefully extracts herself from the embrace. She meets his ocean blue eyes, understanding flowing between them without the need for words. A nod from Killian signals the end of the ephemeral respite, and they both move to get dressed.
She slips into her clothes with a weary nonchalance. Her own attire is ready for retrieval; it's already dry. However, she chooses to borrow warmer clothing from Wendy's wardrobe once again. Killian is waiting in the hallway by the time she finishes. She wrestles into her shoes – a tad uncomfortable with the two thick socks – and then slips into her coat. Looking at Killian, a resigned calmness radiates from her, as if she's awaiting an impending doom.
He maintains a stoic silence, opting for the eloquence of hand-holding instead. Stepping into the brisk cold, the air offers a refreshing clarity, laced with the transparent fragrances of ice and snow. Their path to the lake is accompanied by the raucous cawing of crows, their black wing flaps creating a macabre painting against the blue sky, injecting a sense of foreboding into her soul. Each step feels like an uphill battle, with breathing growing laborious and her heart pounding in desperate staccato.
The nervous tension hangs thick, despite the very real possibility that she may not remember a thing. As they approach the shore, she hesitates, eyes pleading with Killian.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Let's power through it," Killian responds with a dark tone, but there's a glimmer of reassurance in his attempt at a smile. "Afterwards, we'll go home, have another coffee, and I swear, I'll watch 'The Notebook' with you." He even throws in a smirk, coaxing a hesitant smile from Swan.
Wendy's movie recommendation, a stark contrast to Killian's usual aversion to romantic mush, lingers in the air.
Swan nods, draws a deep breath, and with the exhale, she ventures onto the ice. With each step, she anticipates a magical flood of memories, as if the next stride will unlock the secrets buried within her mind. Yet, nothing happens. She watches a group on the other side of the lake, a distant blur of adults engaged in carefree play. It strikes her as odd – their laughter echoing like children she'd seen earlier. Perhaps that's why she finds it captivating; or maybe, it's just easier, steering clear of the tormenting uncertainty of her own recollections. The scene unfolds with a snowball fight, gleeful sledding, and even some ice skating, their laughter drowning out the ominous caws of the crows.
When Killian halts, she looks at him in surprise.
"Did it happen here?"
Killian nods, eyes scrutinizing her every expression.
She releases his hand, takes a timid step back, eyes scanning the ice, then the expanse of the lake. She waits and waits, but nothing transpires. Not a flicker of memory surfaces. It's only then she realizes she had been holding her breath until now, a relieved exhale finally escaping her lungs. She doesn't remember. Everything can stay as it is, and that's enough for now.
"I don't remem-"
"Watch out!"
Swan swivels towards the sound just in time to witness a girl in a black hat hurtling towards her like an out-of-control comet. The next instant, she finds herself sprawled on the icy ground, contemplating the clouds above with a newfound intimacy and sore bottom.
"Sorry," the girl apologizes, extricating herself with all the grace of a cat trying to disentangle from a ball of yarn. Swan observes her legs, considering the potential havoc those ice skate blades could wreak. "I'm still getting the hang of this, and stopping's a bit of a challenge."
Killian materializes like a dashing winter knight, hoisting the girl upright by her arm and, with a gallant flair, extending the same courtesy to Swan.
"Are you okay?" he asks, genuine concern etched across his disheveled features.
Swan nods, though her posterior isn't exactly singing praises after the unexpected ice ballet. Luckily, she escaped any major injuries.
"I'm really sorry. If somehow I can make-," the woman offers, but her words taper off as she lifts her head, locking eyes with her. "Oh, Emma. Hi!"
Swan blinks like a startled owl.
Who's Emma? And why the peculiar emphasis?
"Lily, are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" a casually elegant dark-blond man, sporting an accent similar to Killian's, glides up to the scene.
"All good here," Lily replies, flashing a reassuring smile.
"Thank goodness!" the man exhales, his gaze shifting towards them. However, the mirth evaporates from his face as he notices her. "Oh, Emma. Hello!"
The odd emphasis returns. As if... they don't welcome her. Swan's throat tightens as an odd tension hangs in the frosty air. Her gaze flickers anxiously between the woman and the man, and with a persistent headache, the words echo in her mind.
Emma – could that be her name? If so, why doesn't it trigger any recognition? Shouldn't it at least ring a bell?
They eye her as if she's an unexpected guest at their exclusive party. These people seem to know more about her than she does. A mere few seconds, and her head throbs mercilessly; shapes and colors morph into a chaotic blur.
She shuts her eyes, seeking refuge in the brief cocoon of darkness and silence before she must confront the perplexing enigma of her identity. Just a moment more, just a bit longer as Swan…