She does snicker a little at that, “Aye, Glasgow’s like that. This uh— this is my Gran’s kitchen.”
As she says that, there’s the sound of feet coming down a staircase. One of her ears automatically rotates towards it. Bounding down the stairs comes a much younger Cammie, in her rabbit-print pajamas and a familiar pair of robotic rabbit ears—almost too big on her head, not quite the same design as they are in the present and lopsided, as if put on hastily.
There’s two people at the kitchen table. A grey haired older lady, and a blonde man in a wheelchair, who squashes down a holographic screen showing storm projections as tiny Cammie arrives.
"It's just a storm, Bun," the older woman says.
"It's loud," little Cammie whines, earning a wry smile off her father.
Present Cammie’s eyes are wide, settled on her dad’s face. She’d been thinking about this old memory pretty recently, back home, but remembering in your own head isn’t quite like this.
“...dad,” she says, quietly, before composing herself. She coughs. “I dinnae miss the days I could be woken up by somethin’ simple as a storm, I’d never get any sleep these days. Hearing loss hadn’t progressed so far back then.”
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She does snicker a little at that, “Aye, Glasgow’s like that. This uh— this is my Gran’s kitchen.”
As she says that, there’s the sound of feet coming down a staircase. One of her ears automatically rotates towards it. Bounding down the stairs comes a much younger Cammie, in her rabbit-print pajamas and a familiar pair of robotic rabbit ears—almost too big on her head, not quite the same design as they are in the present and lopsided, as if put on hastily.
There’s two people at the kitchen table. A grey haired older lady, and a blonde man in a wheelchair, who squashes down a holographic screen showing storm projections as tiny Cammie arrives.
"It's just a storm, Bun," the older woman says.
"It's loud," little Cammie whines, earning a wry smile off her father.
Present Cammie’s eyes are wide, settled on her dad’s face. She’d been thinking about this old memory pretty recently, back home, but remembering in your own head isn’t quite like this.
“...dad,” she says, quietly, before composing herself. She coughs. “I dinnae miss the days I could be woken up by somethin’ simple as a storm, I’d never get any sleep these days. Hearing loss hadn’t progressed so far back then.”