The room was a mess of discarded memories and dark brown strands of hair. Madam Pedro stood at the door, her hand gripping the frame so hard her knuckles were white. She watched as Amira took the shears to Amara's hair, reversing the roles. Amara sat perfectly still, trusting the very hands that had once blamed her for everything.
Madam Pedro's heart hammered against her ribs. She saw the sharp flash of the blades, and her instinct was to scream, to call security, to drag Amara away from what she was certain was another one of Amira's episodes.
But Amara caught her mother's gaze in the vanity mirror. She shook her head softly, a serene smile on her lips. "Give her a chance, Mama," she whispered. "Just this once."
