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Had she really thought I would not know him? I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.
and I am done for 🥲
He is half of my soul, as the poets say.
I am made of memories.
“I could not make him a god,� she says. Her jagged voice, rich with grief. But you made him.
“Go,� she says. “He waits for you.� IN THE DARKNESS, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.
