The room held its quiet like breath. Then, very slowly, it remembered back. Not in words but in images that rose like steam from the table: Nicol as a child at the riverbank, hands numb with cold and pockets full of stones; a woman named Mara who had taught her how to count the safe stones by their scars; a promise to meet again at the first winter blossom. Claire’s own memory—years compressed into a single image—of a decision to leave a worn suit in an attic rather than return it to a man she had once loved. Lady Dia’s grandmother, young and fierce, planting a seed the room preserved as a record.
Nicol sat. Claire stayed standing; Lady Dia sat opposite with hands folded. nicol aka nicol mandorla claire benz lady dia work