She's still recovering from the headfuck that decidedly was not like any Paris she'd ever imagined. Nothing at all like the Paris that played a supporting actor in some of the old black and white movies that Jamie liked to show her. She's still shaking it all off. She's still trying to enjoy the warm splash of mid-afternoon sunlight on the apartment patio. She's not expecting it to happen all over again. Not at all, and certainly not so soon.
In the last memory, she could pick out Paris despite never having actually been. But this one? There is nothing she recognizes in this one, despite some desperate pull from the back corner of her mind, a thumb nail scraping for reason. The pull is not compelling, it's rather revolting, and Mars knows nothing about this place where a small girl might run through corridors in pink rain boots. Nothing about beautiful moms in long white dresses.
She can't relate to the sound of it. The laughter of children bouncing off of the walls of a big house. She can't relate to the parents, or the fun, or the history of it all. It holds nothing for her. For Mars, there is more emotion to be gained from a scene in a movie. From this, she feels more than nothing. Different from the chaos of Paris, this is a void.
The memory of a happy childhood, or racing games of hide and seek, or brothers with treehouse rooms, of collecting buttons... it is gone in a blink, and the void remains. She doesn't know if the memory didn't make her feel anything, or if Mars just is determined not to let it. She finishes off her bottle of diet lemonade in one long drink, and she doesn't analyze the memory too closely.
Confidently back in her own head again, Mars leaves the sunshine and warmth of the apartment's little porch. She gathers her phone, the lemonade bottle, her sunglasses, and hat. She retreats into the apartment, then into her bedroom where the lights are off, and the room is cold. And she doesn't think about the memory again.