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You're unsure where you grab it from, but Juturna’s golden face is in your palm. You can't see it in the darkness, but you don't need your eyes for you have it memorized perfectly in your mind. The gold is old, the coin is ancient, but as it digs into your skin, it feels sturdy enough.

Juturna. She had spoken to you, you think. Maybe she did, or maybe you're simply going mad, but right now, you don't care. You just want to push it away, you want to push all the memories away.

And you don't know then, if you're hearing things or if the rain suddenly pulses and the constant splatter changes, and within the rhythm, within the meaningless sound, words start to form and shapes start to grow behind your eyes, and you're going mad, but you see her, looking upon you.

You swear you hear her too. "Puer/ Puella," she speaks, her face made of wind and rain and the shreds of night. Her voice is the gentle dribble of water rolling down the stones of a small stream, clear and crystalline and soaking in the sunlight. You feel warmer, but not as if you burn. It is as if two arms encircle you. "Nolite timere."

Child, do not be afraid.