Totoka River for the sake of one who was

Miyako.

The name came to her ears, at first a meaningless shred of sound from his lips. But like a raindrop into a pool, it soon rippled through her, beginning to form inside as a word of meaning, a word that belonged to her. That was about her.

She could hear her parents call her so, their voices a faint whisper in the back of her mind. Miyako, her mother cooed, and her father's rusty tenor, Beautiful child of the night. She glanced down at her inky pelt and resisted an unhinged laugh. The night. Snowe, so white, was an ill fit.

Her gaze lifted back to Varick again, her throat tight again, but with emotion rather than nerves. "Thank you," she whispered, tears blurring her vision. Only barely did she dam them, preventing them from spilling over onto her trembling cheeks.

"I don't. . .I don't know if I'm ready for anything else, yet. About me, I mean," she continued, voice soft and quivering. "But when did we meet? Where?"

It was hard to stifle the curiosity. Part of her was stretched hair-thin, yearning to know more. Who she was. Where she had come from. Where her family was, and if she could get back to them. Her entire identity. She had a name, now, and she had friends. But she wanted more.

But a tiny voice shouted within her, over and over, a warning cry. As if there were things she didn't need to know. And perhaps this injury was a sign that those parts of her life were not worth revisiting, reliving, and that she should embrace the fresh start, the empty slate.

Snowe--no, Miyako--resisted a heavy sigh and waited for his response.