[ On this matter, at least, she is not quite cruel enough to remain silent. ]

Yes.

[ There's a rustle of skirts as she shifts to sit more comfortably, leaning against a shelf of t-shirts jutting from the wall—which shouldn't be comfortable—and pulling her knees up to hug them. It could seem rather casual for the look of her.

But then so very not, with her nails unconsciously scratching against lace. Back, forth, back—with a rasp as soft as her whisper. ]

They are demons, yes. Whether they are our own, I cannot rightly say. [ Delicate fabric is dragged by dirty nails. ] The only thing that matters is that the one responsible is playing with our memories. They think to write our fates anew, as though we were their dolls.