I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. My fingers and toes have gone numb, and my cheeks are warm. I don’t know how to react.

She takes a step closer and then spreads her arms as tears slip down my cheeks. Before I know what I’m doing, I trip towards her, collapsing against her as her arms wrap firmly around me.

“Mother,” I whisper, my heart tying into knots. “Mother.”

“Lor,” she answers as she rubs the back of my head, and I sob into her shoulder. Inhaling deeply, I’m transported to a small cottage in the woods and the scent of her sweet buns that I loved to help make. And the unmistakable smell of roses. I always wondered why she smelled like that, but now I understand what it meant.

A thousand memories flood back with such clarity that it makes my head hurt. My mother tucking us in at night. Singing us lullabies even though she couldn’t carry a tune. I remember the sunlight reflecting off her dark hair as she hung the sheets to dry in the backyard. The way she’d laugh when my father would chase us around her, nearly upsetting the basket of clean laundry. I remember her soft touch and her soft voice. I remember how she made me feel safe. And loved. Most importantly, she made me feel loved.

But I also remember her face as our father shoved us into that underground cellar when Rion’s army arrived. I remember the necklace she always wore, the red jewel reflecting in the light as she unhooked it from her neck and pressed it into Willow’s hands, making us promise we’d keep it safe. I remember the sounds of her screams as she was taken from our lives.

“Mother,” I gasp as I sob and sob. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too, my baby,” she says, stroking the back of my head. “You have no idea how much.”

“How are you here?” I ask, finally pulling away to study her face. I’m taller than her now, and she looks so much like me and my siblings. I remember the freckles that dusted her cheeks and the light brown slivers in her eyes. That tiny mole on her earlobe.

Suddenly, I remember everything.

“I have much to share with you,” she replies. “When you’re ready.”

I scrub my eyes with the back of my hand.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for anything else,” I say.

She gives me a sad smile. “I can understand that.”

She directs me to a bench, and we settle on it. I have so many questions and don’t know where to start.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more about who you are,” she starts. “I thought I’d have more time, and you were so young. I didn’t want to frighten you. I thought . . .”