That night, when removing and rebandaging her palm, she pulled the gauze a little too strong, the fabric pressed into her still aching wound.
Was she careless? General Chiaki Spring had been in many battles; skin-deep wounds were trivial to her. She only needed a doctor if that involved the possibility of infections.
But this one . . , she inhaled, something occupied her mind.
The battle did take its impact on her. Her brain was muddled, memories of the past Chiaki and her own from the physical world jumbled like puzzle pieces on the table, lying in waiting for someone to assemble them.
Reaching for a pair of scissors to cut the gauze and the tape, her eyes zeroed in on the fern-like blitzing scar, her souvenir from the taxing excursion. Something in her heart stirred, a feeling she couldn't place a name on.
