Her train of thought starts at I don't know this song and winds through maybe I do know this song before it gets to well, I should know this song.
But she can't place it. She can't think of the name.
Her eyes narrow as she listens, and eventually she lets herself fall back, her short hair fanning around her head, and narrows her eyes intently at the ceiling.
There should be some memory this can jog, some tiny little recollection, and just as she's starting to feel frustrated again and even resigned, she sees this fluttering little shard of amber in the corner of her eye. Turning her head to get a better look, she then catches sight of it -- is it a butterfly? -- near the ceiling, and she turns back again, her hand reaching out for it.
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But she can't place it. She can't think of the name.
Her eyes narrow as she listens, and eventually she lets herself fall back, her short hair fanning around her head, and narrows her eyes intently at the ceiling.
There should be some memory this can jog, some tiny little recollection, and just as she's starting to feel frustrated again and even resigned, she sees this fluttering little shard of amber in the corner of her eye. Turning her head to get a better look, she then catches sight of it -- is it a butterfly? -- near the ceiling, and she turns back again, her hand reaching out for it.