Time passes.

Ishara sits on the floor of the study.

She doesn't feel sad. Or angry. Or really anything at all. 

... There is a letter in her fist. It says... It says enough.

It says there isn't anything good left for her.

...

No. 

While she's still breathing, she can fix this. People have manifested resurrection before. Nobody's done it for... for people like her father. For those who don't bear souls. But she'll never have the chance if she doesn't try now. 

She reaches.

There's nothing there. That's what usually happens, of course. Hardly anyone locates their soul perfectly on the first try.

She reaches.

Not there either.

She reaches. If she tries enough directions eventually one of them will be right.

Is she sure about that?

She's out of directions. Inward. Outward. Upward. Downward. Left. Right. Nothing works. 

... Maybe she's too young. 

If she's too young, the worst thing that will happen to her is that she'll waste some time. She has nothing better to be doing. 

She reaches. 

Every direction continues to be the wrong direction.

She needs to do better than this. 

She cannot be too young. Ignore that. If she's too young then there's nothing she can do. So that is not the case.

What did her mother say about manifesting? She doesn't remember. She should have listened. Is she even reaching properly? 

She pauses for a moment, trying to recall a half-forgotten lecture.  What was it? 

Consider what you are. (Stubborn.) Consider what your soul looks like. (Smooth. Clear.) Reach for it. (What does that even mean?)

... Maybe it was a metaphorical sort of reaching. Has she been waving her arms around for no reason? 

If she sits still, and reaches without reaching, in no direction at all—

There it is, right at her metaphorical fingertips. It's not physically present but she can see it in her thoughts, a vague shape, smooth and clear and - flat, and round -

There's an edge! A curved edge, right there against her fingertips! 

... And now there isn't anymore, not after she startled like that.

Bumping it like that feels jarringly painful, a sharp impact without a location. An injury to her soul. But the pain clears after a few seconds.

Ow.

... Next time she'll be more careful.

Alright. Concentrate. She needs to get this right. A firmer grip this time. 

She closes her fingers -

- nope, bad move. Her soul is not exactly physical yet, and doesn't react like a physical object; it jars away again, slipping from her grasp.

... Ouch. 

Okay. Okay, that was too strong. Just. Slowly. She needs to be firm but if she goes too quickly it'll just slip through her fingers again. Worry about pulling it into reality later, can she just. Grasp it?

The moment she moves her hand at all, she loses it again.

... Okay. Okay, it worked when she didn't physically move. What if she just imagines grasping it?

That works just fine. If she is very very careful.

She is very very careful. 

It feels. Circular? Yes, circular. A disc. Of glass? A lens? Yes, a lens. Why is her soul a lens? Is it because she's perceptive?

Her soul has no comment on the reason for its shape.

But it becomes - more clearly visible, as she considers its properties in more detail. A lens. The surface and interior are still undefined, but the shape and colour are set. And it feels just a little closer, somehow, even though it definitely hasn't moved in the slightest.

It feels... Firmer against her imaginary fingers, somehow. A lens. Lenses are for seeing through, right? So it's clear -