The forced flashback of a memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me back in the cold, dim reality of the mansion.
But something had shifted in Daffodil.
She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, but her eyes were no longer vacant. They were filled with a flicker of something—something desperate, something hopeful in a twisted way.
She sat up suddenly, her movements sharp, almost frantic. Without a word, she sprang from her bed and rushed to the corner of the room, where her desk was littered with paper.
She grabbed at the sheets, her fingers moving quickly, folding them into the familiar shape of a flower. Her breaths were shallow, her movements urgent, but there was a strange energy in her now, as if she had found a purpose.
"This is it…"
Her voice was heavy with pain, yet the forced smile on her face told me that there was more than a simple coping mechanism behind her way of thinking.
