My soul is a bird, soaring through pure white space. I’ve been this way for ages, flying though dreamlike air, looking for someone. White mist reels over me, tiny prickles of cold stick in my skin.
A voice sounds on the clouds. It’s familiar. My mother, maybe?
Baby, come back to me. Wake up.
I want to tell her that I’m already awake. I’m flying through the clouds, wheeling and diving. A deep sense of peace flows through me. I never want to land.
More voices echo through the air. This time it’s Elder Faustina herself.
There is nothing-a more I can do.
My hazy brain remembers that I love Lincoln and he was sick. Is he better now? I want to land and find out, but I can only keep soaring through the skies, feeling the rush of air against my feathers.
Little fingers twist into my hair. I
