Silveria found something by accident. It was tucked inside an old book pulled carelessly from a high library shelf, a photograph that had slipped loose from wherever it had originally been kept for safekeeping. A family, smiling warmly together, standing in front of a house considerably smaller and warmer looking than the enormous estate Silveria now called home. A man. A woman. A boy who had to be a much younger Damien, laughing freely in a way she had genuinely never once witnessed from him in all their weeks together. And beside him, a little girl, gap-toothed and grinning up at the camera, her small hand firmly clasped in his.
Amara.
