I recall her voice, rotten hum that grasp through floorboards and into my bones, but it was never directed at me. I remember her watching me, but I never felt like she really saw me. And that singing, if it was real, it was like secret language, something I wasn't meant to understand. My mother figure, always distant, like shadow moving through the house. Her eyes seems to see through me, not to me, as if I were just pane of glass revealing something far more sinister on the other side. I try to remember what she was like, to put the pieces together and understand who she was, but the memories are blurry and faded. I see flashes: her hands, her long hair, the way she would stare out the window for hours. Was I loved? Was I even seen? I think I notice tenderness in her eyes, but it fades away before I can grasp it. Perhaps she was just lost in her own thoughts, in world where I could never belong.