Being around a human had just reminded Rosalie of how cold she was. How strong and unchanging she was; how frozen she was. She was rooted in a place, anchored down by a hatred she harbored toward her own being. “You know you’re lucky,” She blurted out randomly, staring out at the cloudbank as both women sat on the edge of the mountain’s edge. “So.. warm all the time.” She said softly, her golden eyes piercing down at the fog.

“I miss being able to feel the warmth of my own hands.”