The world had known her as Hurricane, the Shaker/Mover who could create and ride whirlwinds, but you’d only known her as mom. They saw her death as a loss to the protection of the city, another in a string of violent crimes at the hands of some persistent villains, but to you it was no more packed lunches or bedtime stories. Not that she’d actually tucked you in for years now - she was often out late, and you were too old for that anyway.

In fact, in the last couple of years, you’d texted each other more than you spoke. You found yourself going through those texts pretty often these days. Little things she’d said, affirmations of your successes, words of wisdom for your mistakes. A lot of the latter you’d ignored or actively rejected at the time, but since you’d started to recognise how true they were. Nowadays, half of who you were came from those messages.

So when that stupid, geriatric substitute teacher catches you playing with your phone under your desk, of course you get mad. When they confiscate it, you try to tell them how they’re taking a piece of you. When they take it for simple teenaged melodrama, you try shouting to get it through to them. They decide to make an example. Your eyes go wide and you trigger as they hurtle your phone out the window.