Third person's narration
The world was hazy, caught between a dream and memory. She was there, under the great sycamore tree, sitting cross-legged on a faded picnic blanket, sunlight filtering through the leaves in a dappled mosaic. Her little hands fumbled with colored paper, folding them the way her mother had taught her. Laughter, bright and familiar, chimed through the air.
She looked up.
There, not far from her, stood her mother, Angel. True to her name, she looked like one sent from the heavens. Her hair glowed under the sun, her white dress billowing like soft clouds, and her smile... God, that smile was brighter than anything April had ever known. Her arms were open, inviting, proud.
The little girl, her younger self, stood and toddled toward that loving figure. But then somet
