She remembered her mother's touch.

The first thing in the morning, gentle hands that rubbed her awake, the smell of hot cocoa and breakfast.

Tears that soft fingers swept away, the smell of magnolia on her clothes, lingering like a subtle cloud, wrapping itself around her.

Soft voice and hands that guided her through math and literature. Books they shared, yellow pages and old worn leather. Paperbacks with white crisp pages.

Bloodied, torn body when the world had been saved, scattered black leather on the floor and sitting on the toilet while she was in the shower. Hearing her sing, lullabies lilted by the south in her voice.

Crawling in between two bodies, feeling the warmth. A child's hand clutching the metal chain around her mothers neck, tracing the written with her finger. Her father retelling their story over and over again.

The bending of metal. Power inside her mind, her body. Her mother's words hovering around her, tangling themselves inside her mind. A story of another time, an older man and same power. Of absorption and loss. Inheritance.

Arguments. Loud voices that echoed through their rooms. Curfew time, her decisions questioned. Her mother's voice full with "been there, done that." Regrets and lessons learned.

The broken heart routine. Shopping with daddy's credit card, sipping coffee in a cafe and her mother smoking cuban cigars with ease.

Almost grown up. Graduation, the scent of love that surrounded her mother, the pride in her eyes. Bare hands clutching her father’s.

The terror in her mother's eyes when it all came tumbling down.

She remembered her mother's touch. The softness of skin against skin instead of leather, silk and cotton.

She remembered the note. Grey ink, old paper. Her father, wild and angry. For once unsoftened by her mother, the beast within came through.

Most of all she remembered the soft click of a door opening in the middle of the night. A hand covered in silk caressing her face.

Then the echo of footsteps.