Really, just dump a sack of flour in Robin's hair and she'll look exactly like Olvia.

It was hardest to forget and move on when she saw her every day.

Every day.

When Robin spoke, she heard her. Not only herself, but her.

Every day.

She couldn't remember when the connection was made. It couldn't have been too long ago, but-

Raise a hand. She raises a hand.

Lower it. She mimics it.

Robin imagines there's blood framing sad blue eyes.

Somehow, over the years, Robin became her. Which only made it harder to try to forget everything that ever happened. She was her, and her was she.

Impossible. What a stupid thing to imagine.

Nico Olvia's charred skeleton was probably lying under twenty years of piled up ashes and debris, oceans away. There was no turning back.

Robin pressed a hand against the mirror. Her mother gazed back at her, separated by a thin sheet of glass.

With a pang, Robin realized that if she dyed her hair white, she would look exactly like her dead mother.

It wasn't exactly a comforting thought.


Damn it all to hell, she even sounded like her.

It wasn't that she didn't know this before... it was just...

It was hard to forget.

Especially when every single goddamn day, Robin saw and heard her dead mother over and over and over and over and over...

Ohara lives in you.

But it was just her. Just Robin.