The room smells distinctly of March 7th, as if she were here standing in it. Plushies and cute decorations are scattered around, photos covering the walls. March is in every one of them, laughing, shining bright like she always is. You remember each moment the pictures were captured as if they happened yesterday.

Evernight stands among the photographs. Hands folded neatly, red eyes dead and unblinking. The light hits her face and does not soften her. She does not smile the way March does, she does not shine. She is the opposite of all the snapshots, the opposite of March herself.

She knows everything about March. Every joke, every glance, every way she moves and laughs. And yet, it is distant knowledge, not memory made flesh. She cannot be March, she cannot reach across the room and touch the warmth in the photos. She watches it all as if through glass, removed from it, and removed from herself.

As you stand by the doorframe of March 7th’s room, you take in her appearance and compare her to the March you’ve grown to know and love. She is a record of March 7th, complete, yet… incomplete.

You think you might see the faintest hesitation, a memory of warmth in the corner of her eyes, but it vanishes before it touches her expression. Finally after the prolonged silence, she turns to face you.

“I know everything she was. I remember what she loved… and what she wanted to protect. You, for one.”

Evernight shifts slightly, tilting her head as she observes you.

“You see her,” she says quietly, offering you an almost uncanny smile. “And yet… I am not her. Tell me, are you here because you miss her?”

Even if you don’t answer, she knows your intentions.