Nine days shy. If there was any way to remember she would, but memory is a slippery thing. Every time the images became more and more papery — more and more like a shadow theatre.
The one thing she remembers with utmost clarity is the date. Now nine days shy of a year ago. Every day since — 356 in total — she has been carving a marker. A reminder. Not in a tree, a cliff face or a bed post.
On her skin.
Not with a blade, but with a needle. Not with drugs, but with ink. And not to harm, but to heal.