Reaction.
She sits up with a gasp and wonders if this is what sleeping is like; a torrent of memories. The guest room she is occupying is chilly, it's to be expected. The manor is old, it creaks and moans, telling stories through the walls and floorboards. Fable hasn't figured the language out yet. It's not like the trees, it's not like Dreams, and neither are these memories.
She stares out the window, but it's all shadowed darkness. This house is so big. It's like bones and the family in it is trying to build it back up from that.
Her tip toes brush the ground and she inhales. Fable can still smell lemongrass of a mama she never knew, things that are created don't have mama's to hold them close, to protect them from the hurt and the bad. No, some times created things got lucky though and had Abels to help them along the way, but somehow he got lost too. Fable touches her cheek where she can still feel the brush of a thumb, the crying from the memory has faded into the whispers of the manor, but not the gunshot. It echoes forever, and Fable wishes then she did sleep and that there was someone in her bed to hold on tight to, not because she scared, but the sage has made her feel hungry and lonely for something she can't touch.
Her feet settle on the ground and the floorboards don't speak this time.