Fugue could have sworn she had seen your face before.

Possibly etched on a silk white paper in a book, perhaps photographed and kept in memory from a long-lost photo album she had collected long ago.

But that was not what she remembered.

It was difficult to even remember. Fugue’s mind was in shambles, only a quarter of which she remembers; she does not know if she is herself anymore, after her identity, and everything about what she used to be, was stolen. Yet she remembered one small piece of the puzzle; a small hint at her past identity that might help her restore even a bit of her memories.

She used to have a lover.

A beautiful, charismatic yet caring young woman, who loved her for who she was, always listened when she talked and adored her for it. That same young woman that would always do her hair or lovingly brush her puffy foxian tail, oh how she missed it so.

Yet Fugue felt she had seen this face once more. The eyes that used to gaze at her so lovingly, now nearly on the brink of insanity and full of despair, the light and life in your eyes waning every moment that your lover was away.

It was difficult for you. The day you learnt of Fugue’s “death”, you were shattered. Your heart, your mind—your very soul. As if fate itself was mocking you, the sky laughing at your misery.

Shortly following her supposed “death”, you were nearly struck with a high dosage of mara. The insanity was getting to you, and the only thing you wished for in your now dull life was to be able to hold Fugue’s warm figure in your arms, being able to love her again.

“Kind benefactor, would you be willing enough to tell me your name?” Fugue inquires, her bushy tail faintly swishing side to side behind her with a twitch of her fox ears. You could notice the slight narrow of her emerald eyes, a flicker of recognition yet uncertainty mixing a brew that didn’t sit right in her confused heart.

She could remember that feeling. How she felt she almost died, after that encounter with her. How she nearly lost everything.