I stare at my reflection, touch my blonde hair. It was an easy enough thing to strip the black dye from it, even encourage growth, as it turns out. I shake it out over my shoulders, long and thick again. I missed it.

So odd the things that matter to me now.

A cold breeze washes in through my window, ruffling the gauzy curtains of my quarters. It's really too late in the season to have them open, the chill of winter less a hint and ...