Amelia hadn’t come back. She no longer occupied the space inside her shell. The shape of her body, the cadence of her speech, the way she tilted her chin, all of it belonged to her. But none of it was her.
What stood behind the metal bars was a version of Amelia wearing her skin like armor, moving with the poise and detachment of someone studying us rather than reuniting with us. Each time she turned her head toward me, it was like watching someone else inhabit her bones.
The softness I used to see when her eyes met mine was gone. Her gaze swept the room with surgical precision, cataloguing weaknesses I hadn’t realized were visible. The tilt of her smile was deliberate and practiced. Her voice lacked warmth, and her stillness didn’t suggest peace, it radiated the tension of a trap wound
