She had forgotten what it felt like.
That was the truth of it, the one she had to sit with as the Keeper's warmth spread through her chest and the presence inside her unfurled with the slow, aching care of something that had been folded too long and was learning, again, the shape of its own wingspan.
She had forgotten what it felt like to be whole.
Not the performance of wholeness. Not the careful maintenance of function that she had practiced in the months of Lyra's silence, the way she had learned to move through duties and obligations by willpower alone, by structure and habit, by the sheer force of refusing to let anyone see what was missing. That was not wholeness. That was a very skilled imitation.
This was different.
Lyra moved in her chest like the return of a tide.
Not crash
