“It’s warm,” she whispered. “It tickles.”
I smiled through the ache in my throat. It’s your mother’s touch, I wanted to tell her. It was always meant for you.
Her breath steadied, her shoulders loosening. The furrow in her brow smoothed, and a sigh escaped her lips.
“It doesn’t hurt so much,” she said, wonder lacing her voice.
“Good.” I pulled my hand back before the glow lingered too long. “That’s good. Rest now. That will help more than anything.”
She studied me, curious in that fearless way children have—long, searching stares instead of quick glances.
“Why do you wear glasses inside?” she asked suddenly.
My chest tightened. I forced a small laugh. “Because the lights are too bright.”
She giggled. “That’s a silly reason.”
“Maybe,” I admitted, a smile twitching beneath the scarf
