This is not the same as it had been before. The Spirit, last she had seen it, had done no more than touch her shoulder and say her name, soft and gentle. It was an echo of what it had meant to her, the softness of his tone and the tenderness of a touch, intimate but never something that they had shared. A promise broken by fate, and Six can feel her eyes widen as they flick over his features.

A pause, her heart in her throat, her eyes dancing down. A green glow on his hand, a solidness to him, a realness in his voice. More than just Cecilia, more than just a whisper of a name she had spurned, something that makes her feel like she could fall to her knees under the weight of so many feelings.

It cannot be real. It could not be possible. He was dead, taken from her, his sword buried in Sundermount and giving to his parents at the same time, a whisper in her dreams as she wished to be better, more, stronger, faster-

"It has not been so long." Her voice is soft, desperate, her step awkward as she forces herself to breathe and be calm. "Cecilia," then softer, in Draconic, a test; "Six."