Celeste
Two weeks in, the pack territory had stopped feeling like a strange place I was staying and started feeling, tentatively, like something closer to home.
I still didn't have my memories back. Every morning I woke half-hoping today would be the day some door in my head finally swung open, and every morning it stayed stubbornly shut. But the ankle had healed enough to walk without the crutch, and the headaches had faded from a constant throb to an occasional dull warning, and somewhere in those two weeks I'd found the pond.
It sat about a ten-minute walk from the main house, tucked behind a stand of birch trees that let dappled light fall across the water in shifting gold coins. Nobody had told me about it, I'd found it wandering one afternoon when the house felt too full of people
