Good lord, that was gruesome. Not that she's any kinder, smacking moths to the ground where they flap lamely until she kicks them along with her foot. Crisp autumn air creeps in through the open windows and door, warm air ushered out with the insects.

"If you're right." Wouldn't that be nice, she assumes. Though part of her is afraid of what's happened to her that she's so complacent to live here, however slight and sloppy the evidence of her existence. In six months, she could have made the house look a little homier even if she didn't plan on sticking around. What comforts there are seem to be there almost begrudgingly. The moths haven't motivated her to add any personal touches so deep down, all that she knows must be locked away, singularly accessible by instinct. Her instinct at the prospect of regaining her memories isn't exactly to jump for joy.