The dream came without warning.
Nero found himself standing in a place he had tried to forget. The mountain was steep, the trees thin and twisted, their branches clawing at a sky that seemed permanently gray. Below, hidden in a hollow of the slope, stood the mansion. It had not been grand, even before time had worn it down. Three rooms, a porch that sagged, windows that let in more wind than light. The paint had long since peeled away, leaving bare wood that drank the rain and rotted in the sun.
This was where he had lived. This was where his mother had died.
He was small. His hands were small, his feet, his arms. He looked down at himself, at the thin legs and the too-large shirt, and understood. He was three years old again. Before the cold had settled into his bones. Before he had learned to stop crying.
The door of the mansion opened, and she stepped out.
His mother.
