Oh, this is... jarring. The memories of Cotes are bittersweet; it used to be her first ward, after all, where she’d been chauffeured on first entry, shaking and processing new and sudden losses. It was beautiful, though, pink with blossoms and little pieces of a culture she knows, and the then-frequent visits have now been reduced to reluctant walks on streets she no longer recognizes.
They haven’t gotten rid of everything, at least. The layout remains and the townhouses are just the same; with a little difficulty she navigates towards her old residential street, where 235 stands unchanged as it was the first moment she stood beside the doors.
Then she hears the creak of the door of the townhouse beside. A flash of red -- wait. Waaaait. There is only one person in the world who wears red so unapologetically in a work suit, and it’s --
“Apollo?!”
She watches him for a long moment from the porch of her old house, eyes wide, before promptly marching over, cutting the distance. “You’re here! And you didn’t even think to call?! You’ve got the whole city on your contacts, so you have no excuse at all! Hmph...” Her indignance falters enough for her to smile indulgently and open her arms in invitation. “Come here. I haven’t seen you for, what, over a year now?”
@justiceoftruth
