“I want you to do something for me, my darling,” Persephone tells you, fingers weaving through your hair deftly, “Tomorrow.”

Had you been more expressive, you would’ve perhaps lamented the sudden duty; would’ve perhaps let your head fall back on your mother’s shoulder and gazed up at her swaying earrings imploringly. But alas, your vitality comes only in the spring and in the confinement of winter and shadows, you are not free to speak and she is not free to roam.

To silence the dove is a great sin, to imprison it greater so.

“Tomorrow,” Persephone repeats, letting the ends of your hair slip through her fingers, “is the start of spring.”

…

Your sister has never been terribly fond of you, this you know. Perhaps she sees too much life in you when spring comes and too much death when it leaves; two extremes in one being. Nevertheless, when your mother asks you to search for her stepson—your paternal half-brother that you do not think you have ever met, your first instinct is to search for Melinoe.

Your footsteps are quiet, soundless, but still your sister hears your approach. Her ghosts swarm you as they usually do, but when they find no place of torment they remain shapeless mist.

Melinoe’s outline fluctuates briefly, as if unsure what form to assume in the face of someone who knows her true one; she ultimately settles for a reflection of you, something closer to her own appearance than expected.

“You should not have emerged yet,” She remarks, at the sight of how sickly you look, even for your shared lineage’s standards; your hair is disheveled, breath visible in the cold air, eyes lined with dark circles, “Spring has barely even started, why waste your strength on the earth?”