It was a deliberate act of mental vandalism. Like a round moonnut shell with the meat hollowed out and its sweet milk drained, her head was empty. Nothing remained but a lingering dream of warmth and the heady perfume of petals drifting under an endless indigo night. But there was one thing she was certain of: the world had not been this white or this cold when she died.
For the moment, this was her most pressing concern. The sea of whiteness that predominated in every direction, from the heavy clouds above her head to the damp ground beneath her huddled form, was as cold as ice. The chill settled in her bones, a dense precipitation scattering over her skin and catching in the silk of her hair like tiny blossoms floating on the surface of a dark river. A tremor ran through her as this sparked some memory, but it was clear from the ensuing pain in her head as she grasped at the fleeting thought that whatever memories remained were not meant to be disturbed.
She knew without a doubt this unseemly act of cowardice had been her own. But she must have left herself something.
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