It only looked like a butterfly because of where it had chosen to hide itself, of course. Faint, fluttering, fragile thing, but no different in nature than any of the other pieces she’d collected, and some of them had been monstrous.

It perched among the butterflies it could have been mistaken for, reflecting their colours and absorbing the adoration of the people who passed through the garden. What a beautiful place for a memory to live, loved by all who saw it.

It was no wonder it felt safe being small and delicate, where some of the others had raged with claws and fangs. If she could have left it there, for its sake and hers, she would have.

But the daring thing she was trying would only work if she was completely whole. Every piece coaxed or defeated, collected or broken back into her. She checked over her shoulder to be sure no one was adoring the not-quite-butterfly at that moment, then cupped her hand over it, too quickly for it to try to flutter away.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have tried. Perhaps it was too used to safety. It was warm for just a moment beneath her hand, and then she was warm within, more so by just a spark, the memory of how she had come there before and hadn’t been alone.

When she lifted her hand, that little ghost of herself was gone from the flower where it had suckled on safety. She took it with her as she turned to leave, within her, just a spark more whole than she had been when she’d arrived. Just a spark stronger, to keep seeking out those pieces of herself that might put up more of a fight.