#zaramercier

“I’ll have a coffee and—,” blonde locks moved like waves about her shoulders as she scanned the menu, “oh, I guess whatever the soup of the day is.” Prue had wandered into the diner mostly out of some kind of grasp at familiarity, magic seeping from Kiki’s restaurant doors. Then there was something else after she entered, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it. Mental chatter mingled with actual words, making it difficult for her to discern one from the other, and she perched herself alone at a back booth in attempts to narrow things down. Irises emerged from the list to meet similar hues and it took everything within her not to immediately furrow her brows. Did she know her? There was some fuzzy piece at the back of her mind that scratched at a memory long forgotten, suppressed— or buried by the cult. Her expression instead meets the other with a friendly grin, pushing the menu away, and looking as completely unaffected.