“Sora, we’re almost done.” Fingertips smoothed along the surface of the stasis caused by the memory flower, the liquid keeping the boy motionless within in a suspended state, buoyed by dreams of memories reknit and rebuilt from broken shards. The hand belonged to a young witch, with powers unexplained, but which were the reason for her penitent words, spoken out loud to empty silence that said nothing in return. In truth, she knew that the boy didn’t hear her, but habits were difficult to break. “Just a little bit more. I promise.” Aside from an unusual setback of leaked memories that appeared to have resolved itself, the witch’s work was nearly done. But the next step would not be easy. Not for her, and not for anyone. But rectifying the sins of deeds past wasn’t supposed to be. She lingered before the Memory Pod a moment longer, the weight of a long and arduous task finally approaching a definite end heavier somehow than when she’d first placed Sora into stasis so many months ago. Back then, she hadn’t known about Roxas. None of them had. Axel had ensured that. She shook her head, not in consternation, but in apology. Axel had never treated her as badly as the rest, despite being quite willing to kill her to achieve his goal. As terrified as she had been then, he had still helped her gather the courage to escape and break out the shell of a puppet, pulled by the Organization’s strings. Her feelings were mixed on the Nobody, but at the very least, she understood now what drove him. He wanted to protect someone. She did, too. DiZ would wonder when she was, if he left his work station where he worked on mysterious programs that were beyond her understanding. Him, too, she had conflicting feelings about, but he seemed to want the same thing she did, for Sora to be whole again. Without his help, and without Riku’s help, doing so might have proved unfeasible. “Good night,” She whispered, collecting her drawing pad. On the way out she passed by other, smaller Memory Pods. Only two were in use. She passed by a strange humanoid duck and dog, giving them a little bow of her head; their memories were fixed, but DiZ thought it unwise to awaken them. In this, too, he was wiser than she was, because in fixing the memories of all three, they would not recall her, either. For better or worse, she would be a stranger, and it would be incredibly difficult to explain to Donald and Goofy why Sora couldn’t be awakened early. They were so boisterous they’d try shattering the Memory Pod, and even Naminé couldn’t say for sure what would happen. A situation best avoided. On the way out of the White Room, she traversed a section of the hidden laboratory, images flashing by on the screen of the town nearby. Perhaps it was a kind of surveillance system, though the Organization had never bothered them. Likely, they were unaware of their presence in Twilight. She left through the secret passage, closing it behind her. Twilight Town was called thus by the peculiarity that the sun never rose nor dropped, though there were subtle variations depending on the time of day. Being of limited existence, the only reason Naminé knew at all the meaning of day and night were thanks to Sora’s memories. She had been born in a world where the only concepts of it existed under artificial pretenses. There had been nothing but eternal night at Castle Oblivion, a place of lost memories and illusions. Discouraged from leaving the mansion, Naminé went to her room, as she always did. The room was filled with images borrowed from Sora’s memories, stylized in childish scrawls, much like the picture he had carved into the walls of the hidden cavern. They were the only splashes of color in the otherwise blank room. She pulled out the last sketch from within the book, pinning it into the wall. It was a sketch of the raft that Sora had almost finished completing with his friends. She wondered if it still existed but, like many things, that knowledge lay beyond her. No matter. Nobodies weren’t meant to care about things like that. She turned to the window as the sketches pinned into the wall rustled in unison, lifted by a strong breeze that caused her to lift a hand to keep her hair out of her eyes, turning towards the open window and billowing curtains. A storm was coming.