Ten years ago, Phoebe Ashcroft died for the first time. Two months ago, she died for the second.
This evening, she boarded the 8 p.m. train to Grand Shore.
The thing about death is, humans aren’t meant to understand what it feels like. When Phoebe woke up in a hospital bed only eight weeks ago, she didn’t remember dying; she didn’t know if she’d really died at all. The doctors told her that it had been a miracle. To Phoebe it had all been some strange dream.
Phoebe Ashcroft was a young woman of 20, with the aspect of a melanistic deer. Her shoulders were adorned with a cervine form and her bright golden eyes seemed to glow against the dark fur surrounding them. Two oval ears drooped slightly as she made her way down the narrow aisle.