Persephone made it to the hallway on legs that still didn't feel entirely her own, one hand braced against the wall as she moved, the world tilting gently with every few steps before settling again.
Harold. Vanya. The names surfaced together, clearer than anything else in the fog — the elevator, the day they'd moved in, the woman who'd introduced herself and her younger cousin so plainly Persephone had actually remembered both names afterward, unusual for her with new neighbors. Then, layered over that first meeting, something more recent and blurred: Harold's voice at her door, telling her to stay out of the sunlight, something about a phenomenon she'd been too groggy to fully absorb at the time.
She knocked on the door across from her own.
It opened after a moment, and Harold stood on the other side — young, a little startled to see her upright, his expression shifting fast from confusion into something like relief.
