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Story Notes:
This scribblet is for everyone who asked for more from the Mirarchives, and it's a special brand of horrible. Remember: you asked for it.
Nothing like her
Contrarily, mother and daughter shared blood, name, face.
"Aren't you?" Jarod challenged.
Parker's rebuttal—wrought by decades of comparisons and imagined deficiencies—suddenly wasn't.
"Aren't you," Jarod repeated, his whispers transitioning to whimpers, wails.
He lifted his face, wet with tears, and directed a mute accusation at the coffin in which her mother had never rested peacefully, and hoped, hoped, that with both murders avenged, she would.
