By people tearing pieces out of yours, in my experience. That's what burns me about the memories; it stops you learning. Trees get their shapes by year after year of growing new shapes around their broken branches.

[She remembers Rorschach: her precious bonsai blackthorn, her dark star. Mira is a silver birch, she thinks: always growing upwards, always reaching for the sky regardless of what may have scarred her. Mira's radiance will always reach up and outwards.]

Part of me'll always want to stand between you and the wind. Luckily, the universe never lets us do that as much as we want.