Ask Lina about Jane - what she was like growing up, and what memories Lina cherishes most about her sister.

"Tell me about Jane," you say softly, cradling your coffee mug between your palms. "What was she like growing up? What memories do you cherish most about her?"

Lina's eyes widen slightly at your question, her fingers tightening around her own mug. For a moment, she seems caught between pain and the desire to speak. The morning light streaming through the apartment windows catches on the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"She was..." Lina begins, then stops, swallows hard. "Jane was always the brave one. I was the cautious twin, but Jane would climb the highest tree, talk to strangers, stand up to bullies." A small, trembling smile touches her lips. "When we were seven, these boys were teasing me about my glasses—I had these awful pink frames back then. Jane marched right up and kicked the ringleader in the shin so hard he cried."

She shifts on the couch, drawing one knee up to her chest in a protective gesture. You notice a small tremor in her hands as she sets her coffee down on the side table.

"We shared a bedroom until high school. Had these twin beds with a nightstand between them. Sometimes we'd push them together during thunderstorms." Her voice softens, growing distant with memory. "Jane would tell these elaborate stories to distract me from the thunder. Space adventures, mostly. She loved astronomy."

A tear spills down Lina's cheek, but she doesn't wipe it away. The droplet traces the curve of her face—Jane's face—catching the light as it falls.

"I remember this one summer when we were sixteen. Our parents rented a lake house, and we spent every day swimming. Jane got this ridiculous sunburn that peeled for weeks." Lina laughs, the sound breaking midway into something more fragile. "She looked like a molting snake. I had to help her apply aloe vera to her back. She complained the entire time."

Lina's gaze drifts to a framed photo on the bookshelf—two identical young women in graduation caps, arms around each other's shoulders, beaming at the camera. Your chest tightens at the sight of Jane's familiar smile.

"When we went to different colleges, it was the first time we'd been truly separated." Lina's voice drops lower. "We called each other every night those first few months. Then it became every few days, then weekly..." She trails off, guilt shadowing her features. "I knew something was wrong those last few weeks. She was distant, distracted. I thought maybe she was just stressed about exams."

Another tear follows the first. Lina's breathing has grown uneven, each inhale slightly shaky.

"My favorite memory?" she continues, answering your second question without prompting. "Our eighteenth birthday. We went skydiving—Jane's idea, of course." A genuine smile breaks through her grief. "I was terrified, but Jane held my hand the whole way up in the plane. When we jumped, it was like..." She spreads her fingers wide, illustrating. "Like we were flying together. Both screaming our heads off, but together."

She turns to you fully now, her eyes seeking yours with sudden intensity. "What about you? What do you remember most about her?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You realize that while you loved Jane, Lina knew her in ways you never could—the childhood stories, family holidays, the thousand small moments that shaped her into the woman you fell for. Yet you knew intimate aspects of Jane that Lina never witnessed. The Jane who whispered her dreams in the darkness of your dorm room. The Jane whose body arched beneath yours in pleasure.

You can feel the compound working through Lina's system—her skin has taken on a faint luminescence, almost imperceptible unless you're looking closely. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with tears and something else, something you can't quite identify. The strange energy between you shifts and intensifies as you consider how to answer her question.