[ There's a part of her that wonders why you're so curious. It makes her uncomfortable, all this attention you've been directing her way.

You've been so nice though so... ]

I do not remember much of her. [ Looking down at her hands now. ] I do not even know if the voice I sometimes dream about belongs to a woman I can call my mother.

[ It is always the same: a hand to her cheek, a promise. The rest she remembers is the sound and smell of rain. ]