witch frantically digging through boxes of childhood keepsakes at her parents' place.
it might not be too late. her parents keep everything. she herself is a little older than ISO 9706. and mom hates bugs, so the attic always had traps out.
there's a papery rustling. she freezes, listening with her ears and her outstretched shadow.
the attic air is still. no drafts to distract. she focuses.
perhaps that box, there, with her deadname on it. (she doesn't mind much; her parents haven't touched these boxes in years.)
she opens a folder and gasps. it's there. it's just a paper outline cut in the rough shape of a person from faded red construction paper, one arm held on with yellowed tape, but she can feel a tiny fragment of her power echoing back.
"i'm so sorry," she says. "i didn't know…"
the rustling modulates, weakly. it might be nothing; might be a faint repeated word: "mama".
she holds back tears. an errant drop of salt water could ruin everything.
she turns and yells down the attic stairs: "dad!"
"heyo, kiddo!"
"bring me the long blue box, from the car?"
"what are you up to, up there? can i help?" her father asks, passing the blue carrying case up the narrow folding stairs.
she takes the top handle, and fixes him with dark, serious eyes. "stay out. i'll tell you if it works."
she unlatches the case, and gloves up.
"this won't be what you're used to," she tells the paper scrap of a doll. "i'm sorry. whatever happens… i'm sorry, and i'm proud of you."
she removes the foam around the largest item in the blue carrying case. she reaches into the folder with gloved fingers. her shadow grows.