Hmmmm, [This time her eyes only fall half lidded as she recalls the feeling of wood in her hand, the smell of a nearby campfire, the faint scratch of the still-smoking burnt end against stone as she practiced her letters--

--wait, what?--

Sypha blinks out of the sense-memory and flicks her gaze to the rudimentary charcoal stick held between her thumb, middle, and forefingers.]

It's will, but it's memory also, isn't it? Or the ability to trick yourself into thinking something's a real memory, like a story told wrong so many times the truth gets lost.