After class, as she rests on her mat, splayed like a stickwoman, her body hums with gentle energy. A pleasant fog clouds her mind and slows her thinking. For the first time in a long time, she feels peaceful.

During the class, as she listened to Hawthorn’s softly-spoken guidance, and settled into each pose, she discovered something more surprising than her body’s lack of suppleness. It was a feeling. A feeling that undulated through her in waves, back and forth, back and forth, as if she could feel the very water that was such a part of her makeup moving through her. About halfway through the class, while she was in Cobbler’s Pose, and her inner thighs finally stopped shrieking, a simple truth opened to her like the amber heart of a lotus bloom, and she finally knew what the feeling was: life. She was alive. Despite everything, still alive.

While the others busy themselves with putting props, and rushing off to their next commitments, she lingers on her mat, staring at the ceiling fans with her palms resting over her sunken stomach, reluctant to let go of the peaceful feeling. Mere days ago, she thought that everything about her, inside and outside, had been ruined by loss. That is what Anchor and Gloom have told her for months, like promises, like truth. That is what Blaze and her shame have burned and chilled into her marrow. And for months, she believed them.

Now, she isn’t so sure.

By the time she rolls up her mat and limps over to the desk where Hawthorn is busying himself with boiling water for tea, the studio has emptied. On the floor in front of the large bay window overlooking the street, he has arranged a couple of bolsters for them to sit on and gathered a few woollen blankets, too.

“I have ginger lemon and blueberry green tea.” He holds up a box of each. “Personally, I’m a fan of the ginger.”

“I’ll try that one, please.” She lowers herself onto a bolster, sits cross-legged, and drapes one of the blankets over her legs. Then she peers through the window. The snowfall has tapered to a shimmery dusting.

“So,” he asks. “How was the class?” He drops tea bags into a couple of green earthenware mugs. “Do you hate me?”

“A little bit,” she grins as she kneads her fist into her lower back. “But really, it’s not too bad. I expected to be a little sore. Otherwise, I feel good. Relaxed. You’re a good teacher.”

With a self-effacing grin, he hands her a steaming mug. She notices for the first time a comma-like dimple denting his left cheek. She wonders if Sequoia had the same feature, then remembers that fraternal twins don’t share identical genetics. Still, she can’t help but wonder what his sister looked like, this person who feels both known and unknown to her.