The second memory hit her later, after she'd put the book away and moved into the arboretum to fill the small apothecary bottles she'd set aside for Daniel.
This memory was nothing like the first, and she had to reach out and clutch the windowsill to handle it. Her eyes closed, and she closed a hand around the slowly reviving roses, the thorns cutting into her palm with a pain that didn't come close to eclipsing the pain in the memory.
When she could think, she realized the pain came from her hand, and she held it in front of her face with realization. Ed.
She closed her eyes again. Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent, she thought, and she wondered when this - whatever this was - would stop.
She knew Ed; she knew his hand was injured. This wasn't in her head.