The bottle slides from Illya’s delicate fingers, landing amidst wild and lush grass. She pinches the long green stocks with her bare toes. It’s soft, like a never-ending fur made of life. The early dew coat her feet with chill. She doesn’t notice. “What’s this?” Illya picks up a rough stone, her youthful hands cupping its dark oval shape. A feeling itches at the back of her senses, tempting her out of reality. The rock gains meaning and changes before…