A hand busily scribbled a pen over paper. There was a manic energy behind it. Not from urgency; from frustration. Another hand pushed a few strands of brown hair behind Hamia's ear. She chewed the end of her pen, reread her scribbling, then frowned. Her eyebrows knit into an angry and resigned curtain.

"Damn it!" She ripped the page from her notebook and crumbled it up. A haphazard toss later, the balled up note was rolling across the floor. It hadn't even come close to landing in the bin.

Hamia had spent a lot of time thinking. A lot of time skirting around a question she refused to ask herself. But, on this particular night, in the safety and comfort of the Fire House, she caved. And when she thought - really thought - about the question... her fears were confirmed. She had no answer.

Almost robotically, the Enchantress sipped/gulped her coffee. She wasn't even really enjoying it anymore, considering it had gone cold almost an hour ago. She let out a slow sigh and put pen to paper again. She'd been overthinking this. She didn't need to write some big, drawn out, tearful goodbye. She just needed her peers - such as they are - to know she hadn't died. She stopped again, finished the last dregs of her cooled coffee, and read over her work. Satisfied (at last), she put down the pen. Then she carefully tore the page from her notebook, sealed it in an envelope, and wrote a name on the front.

Anastasia

Hamia left that night, clutching her messenger bag.