Chapter 252
The room they give us for Delphinium’s “transformation” isn’t exactly glamorous—harsh white light, drab tile floors, a mirror bolted to the wall with rust around the edges—but it’s ours for now. It’ll do.
Cora and I pull supplies from a small bag we borrowed from the infirmary staff, who were more than happy to help. A brush. A small palette of makeup. A simple pair of shears. Lip balm. Nothing extravagant, but enough to give Delphi something she hasn’t had in a century: a sense of self.
Delphinium perches nervously on the edge of the chair we dragged over from the hallway. Her knees are together, hands clasped, eyes darting from us to the mirror and back again. She’s in a simple set of medical scrubs, hair tangled and brittle from her time in the cryochamber.
“Alright,” I say gently, brushing my hand over her knuckles. “Are you ready to become a citizen of the twenty-first century?”
She laughs—a soft, unsure sound. “You’re certain this isn’t… ridiculous?”
“Delphinium, if you can survive a hundred years of captivity and still smile like that, there’s nothing ridiculous about you. This is just… the fun part.”
Delphinium blinks at me, clearly moved. “Then yes. I’m ready.”
I glance over my shoulder at Cora, who nods and lifts the shears. “Let’s start with your hair.”
Delphinium sighs, and I watch some of the tension ease from her shoulders.
As Cora gets to work snipping away years of matted curls, I sit cross-legged on the floor and talk. I tell Delphinium about shampoo, conditioner, and dry shampoo. I explain the concept of body wash, of personal style, of accessorizing. I try to keep it light, but with every word, I see her absorbing it all like a sponge—eager, curious, a little overwhelmed.
“You don’t have to learn it all today,” I remind her as I begin brushing out her freshly trimmed hair. “This is just the intro class. You’ll have a whole life to figure out your aesthetic.”
“I don’t even know what that word means,” she admits, her cheeks flushed.
“It means,” Cora says, kneeling beside me with a gentle hand on Delphinium’s shoulder, “that you get to decide who you are. Not Enigma. Not the ocean. Not even us.”
Delphinium exhales shakily. “I don’t feel like Delphinium anymore,” she says. “She died a long time ago, I think.”
“Okay,” I say. “Would you prefer to go by Marina?”
She shakes her head vigorously. “No, I won’t answer to the name they gave me. Not now that I have my voice back.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know what to say to that. So I squeeze her hand instead.
She looks between us. “Can I be someone else now? Just… Delphi?”
Cora smiles, eyes glassy. “You can be whoever you want.”
We move on to makeup, and I keep it simple—just enough to brighten her cheeks, to define her eyes. A little mascara. A soft coral gloss. When I finish, I tug a clean outfit from the pile we managed to scrounge together. Nothing fancy—a pair of linen pants, a plain t-shirt, a cozy cardigan. But it’s a thousand times better than a hospital gown.
“Alright,” I say, leading her to the mirror. “Take a look.”
Delphi steps slowly to the reflective glass, her movements hesitant. She stares at herself, brow furrowing. Her fingers brush over her cheeks, her lips, the strands of soft blue hair that now frame her face.
She gasps.
And then—she starts to cry.
Not small tears. Not a trickle.
She breaks down.
Cora reaches her first, arms wrapping around her from behind. I follow a heartbeat later, pressing close to them both. For a while, we just hold her as she cries—not because she’s sad, but because something buried deep inside her is finally waking up. Because she looks in the mirror and sees someone worth saving.
“Thank you,” she whispers through the sobs, clutching at us. “Thank you for giving me my life back.”
I swallow hard, eyes stinging. “You did that yourself.”
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