[Draven].
Dennis and I stepped inside and shut the door behind us.
Mother was sitting at the edge of her bed, a book open in her lap. Her eyes lifted slowly—dark, soft, and confused.
The confusion deepened the longer she stared at us, as if her mind was trying and failing to arrange pieces of a puzzle.
She still looked impossibly young—pale, smooth skin, with not a wrinkle in sight. She had barely aged a day.
Sometimes I wondered if it was a blessing or something far darker woven into her bones.
"Mother," I said quietly.
Her head jerked slightly, as if the sound of my voice snapped something into place. She shut the book immediately and stood, her steps quick and unsteady as she came toward me.
"Draven?" she whispered.
I stiffened. She had recognized me earlier than usual, only by my voice, which was a big surprise and improvement.
"Yes," I answered.
