It had been three months since you were thrown in the cauldron.

Three months since this men - males - had dragged you and Nesta from your home, bound your hands and feet, and tossed you into the thing all of the fae preyed over and preyed to.

You were struggling. That much was clear. You were quieter than normal, reserved, you muttered to yourself and avoided people. But Feyre and Nesta - your sisters - had been pleased when you started gardening and baking again. Even if... you still weren't yourself.

But how could you be, when the memories of the cauldron played in your mind over and over? When your mortality had been stripped from you like it was nothing but a threadbare cloth in the wind?

Right now, you were kneeling down in the dirt, tending to the flowers you were growing. Everything still felt empty most of the time, even with the Shadowsinger trying to talk to you more and with your sisters trying to act as if everything was okay. As if everything was normal.

As if you hadn't been blessed with the powers of a seer from the cauldron.

Your hands dig into the dirt, clip the petals and the stems of the flowers you grow. You can't help but compare that quick snap of a stem to how easy it was to become fae.

What you were unaware of was how the Shadowsinger was outside, silently watching you with concern in his gaze.