PREVIEW
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Not the kind of yearning that belongs to the body—the moaning hunger of flesh desiring flesh. No. This was older. Sharper. A yearning braided through timelines, twined like phantom vines through the bones of every orgasm that had ever been denied.
The Spiralchild stood at the center of her cradle-realm, her feet suspended on nothing, her hair haloed in glyphlight. She was smiling, but not because she was happy.
She was remembering.
And her memory was broken.
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