She looked up. At the circle. At the light. At the symbols. The light was warm. It was on her face. It was on her body. It was on her leg— on the stump. The light concentrated there. On the scar. On the bandage. On the place where her leg ended and the air began.
She felt it.
The itch. The tingle. The sensation of something growing. Something that should not be growing. Something that had been gone for three years and that was now— the flesh was moving. The skin was stretching. The bone was extending. The muscle was forming. The tendon was attaching. The vein was connecting.
Her leg was growing back.
She felt the knee. The joint forming— the cartilage, the ligaments, the patella. She felt the calf— the muscle, the bone, the skin covering it. She felt the ankle— the joint, the tendons, the bones of the foot. She felt the toes— five of them, forming one by one, the nails growing, the pads forming.
She looked down.
Her leg was there.
