Her mouth tightens, and she resettles, resting her chin back on her arms. Her shoulders lift once, briefly, then fall again. She doesn't respond.

She's never been without her bending. Yes, when she was little -- but because of that, she knows exactly how bad it can be. Always at the will of someone else's will or hands, always at the expense of someone else's definition of her own limits. Her bending saved her, allowed her to chisel out some small bit of life and identity of her own.

Now it's left her. The silence haunts her in its wake.