There wasn't much left behind.

The storage itself was small. Single-wide. A simple combination lock. 1-15-91. Her birthday. That made Sasha smile, the expression spreading as she opened the door. It smelled dank and musty; she switched on the light. The room was illuminated by a few weak bulbs.

After clearing a small space for herself, Sasha began digging. She would take everything considered sentimental or valuable, and ask the doctor to have the rest destroyed. This was her moment for closure - and to put an end to 21 years of memories in only two days? Well, it felt… rushed, but at the same time, it felt reassuring. She could do this. She needed to do this. She wasn't entirely sure what she'd been expecting to find in the storage. It was a good thing she hadn't been hoping for much, because there wasn't much at all.

A locked safe with no key to be found. It was small - the size of a slender briefcase - so it wasn't heavy. Sasha hesitantly shook the box; there was a gentle shuffle of papers. A muted clang of metal. With a thoughtful noise, Sasha set it aside to keep.

A small, small wooden box of pictures. Pictures of Sasha as a baby - a head full of glossy black hair, red and wailing and still wet from birth. A baby Sasha in the arms of a man she didn't recognize. Infant Sasha being kissed by a woman she didn't know. The only reason she knew it was herself was the flowing, flowery script on the back of each picture - 'Sasha, January 15th, 1991' - the man in the picture looked nothing like her papa. An uncle? One of the strange, unknown family members that she had only recently been told she had? Was the woman her mother? Biting her lip, Sasha set the small box on top of the locked metal safe. Maybe the closed safe held the answers she sought?

A few scribbled unintelligible notes. Damaged by water and time, there weren't many things she could read. It looked to be her papa's writing. She could only decipher a few things; request for leave … please consider … someone else … not getting along … difficult … safe and hidden … deal with it anymore … never my problem … what I signed up for… Sasha hesitated for the briefest moment. She tucked it carefully into the box with the pictures.

A small stuffed bear. It was old and matted, the once fluffy fur of the little thing dirty and stained. The bear had been her only friend until she'd received her flute - aside from her papa, of course. He'd given it to her when she was five? Six? Sasha traced her finger over the cracked plastic nose of the bear, a small smile toying with her lips. She rested the bear against the small safe. She'd keep the bear if only for sentimental reasons.

A folder with childish scribbles. Sasha shuffled through the papers. Old drawings, letters to her papa apologizing for this and that. Blots of black, waxy crayon with hideous red eyes. Fierce, animalistic faces with toothy jaws. Sasha's jaw clenched as she set the folder aside; it would not be coming home with her.

A few small bags of clothes. She briefly rifled through it. Nothing of value to be found within the bag. In truth, it could be incinerated.

"Aurez-vous besoin d'aide portant quoi que ce soit, ma petite dame?" A low, gravelly voice rumbled from nearby. Sasha turned to face the small, knobby man with a soft smile. His offer to help carry her belongings was a sweet gesture, but she wouldn't need his help for the few things she'd decided to keep so far. Sasha thanked him gently.

"Non, monsieur. Je suis presque fini. Merci pour votre offre généreuse." Her french was likely rusted and atrocious, but the wrinkled face of the old man broke into a broad smile that Sasha couldn't help but return. He dipped his head in a nod before shuffling back to his post at the desk of the office.

Sasha slowly rose to her feet. There honestly wasn't much left to salvage. Her papa's clothes in a few tattered bags. She could see a pair of his shoes, his favorite jacket. Emotion welled deep in her throat, choking her. It balled in her throat like an angry, resilient knot, one that refused to loosen enough to let her breathe. Would his jacket still smell of him? Perhaps she should take it, just that one thing to have when she was feeling especially lonely.

No. No, no. She wasn't alone. She was never alone. Nona's voice was soft. Gentle. Soothing.

<I am here, sweet little bird. I am always here, hmm?>

Thank you, Nona. We'll be fine. I'll be fine.

<Of course, my darling dove. Your Nona has never doubted you.>

Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, Sasha exhaled slowly. She gave the barette in her hair a soft touch before gathering all the things she'd decided to keep.

<We are done, then?>

Yes. I have no need of anything else in here.

<What will we do next?>

Go home, I guess. Sasha locked the door of the storage.

<No. No, no. This is the first time we have been off of the island with no mission, little starling. We are not yet going home.>

Well.. I suppose you have a point. What do you want to do, Nona?

A small, tinkling chime of laughter.

<We're going shopping, dearest dove. We both deserve to celebrate, hmm? To look at beautiful architecture and ... perhaps beautiful bodies, if we are lucky?>

Sasha shook her head, smiling as she bid the old man farewell.

Well.. I admit, shopping does sound nice. I.. there is one other place to visit before we leave the country, though.

Nona was silent, slightly disapproving - even more disapproving as Sasha piled into the waiting car and gave the drive the address to her prior home.

One final stop, Nona. I promise.