We stood in the dark room, neither of us able to see a thing. The air was cool and still, the same heavy quiet the room always carried. Boards under our feet gave the softest complaint when either of us shifted weight.
"Do you think it has to be this room?" I asked.
"I don't know." A small laugh came out of her, close by—soft, almost private. "It's just what my mother taught me. Bring your hands."
"And why the hands?"
I'd gone into the past without her this morning. She'd been asleep on my chest with her hair across my face and I'd walked into a forest and watched my father lift a newborn. I still hadn't told her that.
"I don't know that either." Her voice moved as she found her position. "It's the only way I've ever done it. The first time I went, my mother was holding my hands. I was four. They were small enough that she could hold both in one of hers."
