A M A L I A
The goddess' hand is both warm and cold, smooth and soft, supple and firm; she wants to sink into its perspective, but the changing landscape draws her back. The perspective shifts, the world turns, and Amalia sees a new version of the scene, one that speaks a different story, details hitherto unnoticed. "She's an image," the sunlit girl breathes, her voice smoke in the darkness, a hushed understanding - or so she hopes. Is this the secret? The thing she missed? "Then... is she still inside there?" Her gaze seeks Safrin's for confirmation, brow furrowed in focused puzzlement and mild bemusement. It has been a whirlwind day.
But there are still more questions, still more to understand, and the girl is ravenous now that she has tasted knowledge, her pounding head and fluttering heart aching for still more. Tired, hopeful, unwilling to resign, Amalia struggles to organize her thoughts. "The world you showed me, the one out there... will we ever get to see it?" she asks, wistful and wanting, already doubtful of assent. Sadness and severity lurks in her eyes: she gazes into Safrin's infinite face and wonders if the goddess is lonely, too. "Do you miss it? And them?"
