GEORGIA SET UP her makeshift quarters in the back room; sandwiched between the fireplace and the shelves. Though it was less practical than being at the front-of-house, it granted her privacy.

And it ensured me, some much desired space.

I took in the shop once more, before propping up a ladder underneath the hole in the roof. I lifted the now unfolded tarpaulin-gram, and watched as it fastened itself to the jagged edges of the ceiling and tile. I ensured that it completely covered the exposed area, before climbing back down the ladder.

"Looks...practical," Georgia remarked as she came to stand beside me. "At least we'll stay dry."

"That is the idea," I sighed, raking a hand through the loose ends of my hair. The teenage girl had braided a crown and pinned it back at the top of my head, ensuring that my hair would stay out of my face. "...Now we can get started on the rest of this mess," I hinted.

Georgia looked me as though she was wondering how much force it would take for her to strangle me. Which would be impossible, but that did not look like it would deter her from trying.

I folded my muscled arms, ignoring the roar of pain.

"I am not asking you to do much," I assured her. "When I am done clearing the glass and debris, you can mop or dust," I suggested. "Or you can organise the stock that I do have left in the back room."

She frowned at each option. Though she then seemed to realise that if she wished to stay, it would be polite to earn her keep in some way. "...If I absolutely have to —I'll sort out the stock," she grumbled.

"Thank you," I chuckled, shaking my head as she angrily stomped off to get started.

I grabbed the broom from the opposite wall and began at the entrance, where there were several piles of maliciously small pieces of broken glass. It was a strange mix of regret and frustration that filled me as I recalled throwing the empty bottles of dreams. It had not been my fault, and I had protected myself by doing so —but I could not help but feel that there had been a better and less cruel way of defending myself.

Something I had not wanted to think about then made its way to the forefront of my mind.

If I had appeared male, would those soldiers have hesitated? Stopped in their tracks and thought twice?

No, I told myself. It may have ended worse if they had seen the shop and then looked at me. A man of my stature, surrounded by pink and lilac? They may have very well burnt the building instead.

It vexed me to know that humans still did that; still assigned labels for anything and everything based on loose stereotypes. Not everything had to be categorised. Not everything had to be understood.

Some things could simply exist for the sake of existing.

Though I did share in the desire to organise. Only things that required order; not people or personality traits. I was most content when there was not a single element of my shop that was out of place.

I took great care in the tidiness of Cotton Candy. In its sophistication and playfulness —in a peculiar way of appealing to both adults and children. It was one of the selling points in which I took pride.

Along with my whimsical collection of dreams, I had thought that it was the most perfect shop in the world. The thought was a bit bigheaded, I was aware, but I did not outwardly brag about it.

It was a quiet, private status which I otherwise furiously fought to uphold. I was sure that Magenta would have strongly disagreed.

Magenta.

And with that thought, I stiffened. Froze, and let the broom clatter to the floor. Magenta was no longer my sister. She had nothing to do with me anymore.

I tried to tell myself that it was a good thing.

My legs gave way, and I kneeled, staring at nothing.

Magenta had been nothing but prideful and competitive. She had never once smiled at me. She had never once encouraged me, or told me that she did not mind having me for a sibling. She had been so cold and distant —why did I care that our ties were now severed?

Why had I tried so hard to be on good terms with her throughout our childhood? She had only ever turned me away or ignored me completely.

She was forced to acknowledge my existence whenever we had attended a meeting or ball. Beyond diplomacy, Magenta had been an only child since the beginning. I was a nuisance; an intruder.

Knowing that she would have no obligation to speak with me after her promotion, she had given me her last remaining dreams.

'I have no need of them,' she had said. 'Do with them what you wish. Though in your hands, they may as well be thrown away in the garbage.'

I had let that comment slide. In my head, I was screaming. Why was anything that I did never enough for her? Why did she consider me such a disappointment —if she even bothered to think about me at all.

The thing that had bothered her more than my existence was my indecisiveness. My lack of grounding, and desire to explore more ways to do things than what was presented. She had called it a disgraceful, human habit.

I had called it living.

Magenta's words now stung. To replay them now —it was dry ice to my skin. Though who could I blame? I had let her treat me that way. I had let her belittle and walk all over me. Yet I still sought her approval.

My bottom lip caught between my teeth and I bit down, unfamiliar with the crushing weight inside of my chest. I had been taught to play emotion well, but I did not want this. I did not want to feel this.

I hate her, I screamed. I hate Magenta.

A strangled gasp made its way up my throat and out of my mouth. My eyes widened in realisation.

Dreamcatchers could not cry.

I had never before felt the urge to, until now. It confused me to no end. How...how was this emotion possible?

I glanced down at my palms as a soft glow pooled in them. Swirls of magic danced, but this time I did not marvel. I did not stare in awe.

I curled my hands into fists and stifled that light.

"Purple?" Georgia's voice then wafted in from behind the front counter. I flinched.

Her denim jacket was off and an apron was on; the remaining arm of her long sleeved t-shirt rolled up to a bony elbow, and her hair messily tied into a bow. In her right hand, she held a feather duster.

To her credit, she did not say anything. She did not pry. She hesitantly walked over, before lowering to her haunches beside me. I knew that she wanted me to say that I was fine, and that she should not worry —but I could not. I was not fine.

This new magic was irritating me; and causing me pain. I wondered if it was its fault that I was feeling what I was feeling. I unfurled my fingers.

"The magic came on its own," I murmured. "And I...remembered my —someone I used to know," I settled for. "And the true nature of our relationship."

The teenager squirmed.

"Sibling," I clarified, forcing the word through my teeth. "...But not anymore."

"How come?" she whispered.

I could not say it. I turned my head, my muscles pulling and my jaw locking taut.

She did not press for an answer. "Um...I didn't know that Dreamcatchers could —"

"—Could what? Feel?" I deadpanned. My gaze lowered to my shoes. "...Me neither."

She was quiet for a moment again, unsure of what to say to me. Then her expression hardened, and she huffed with newfound determination. "...Has it got to do with the magic?" she had the courage to ask.

I grunted halfheartedly.

"Purple," she said firmly. I reluctantly looked up to glare at her. "I don't know about your family dynamics, and it's not my place to comment on it. But this is clearly a strange occurrence. You can't sit here freaking out over developing PTSD. Maybe focusing on understanding the magic will take your mind off of it."

"PTSD?" I frowned.

"Post traumatic stress disorder," she elaborated. "But like I said —not my place."

"And what if the magic does have something to do with...whatever I am feeling?" I hissed. "What if exploring my ability makes everything worse?"

Georgia sighed and sprang up to her feet. "I can't tell you what to do. But do something."

I clicked my tongue.

She marched back to the back room, while I sat on the floor. I was going to be honest —I was scared. If the magic did have something to do with this tangle of emotion, what would I see next? Would it be her again?

I opened my palm.

If I caved —if I drowned in the possibility that I cared for Magenta or anything to do with her —would that be admitting defeat? She would win again, having managed to manipulate me yet again.

I lose if I do nothing.

And I am not so weak.

I rose to my feet. I ignored the constricting sensations, suppressed the hatred, and watched as my surroundings became pine trees and snow.