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... But at most, a man with a face. Now I am not.”
–– Eriksson Lennard
With trembling hands, I brush a lock of rust-colored hair from her cheek.
The motion is gentle. Reverent. My fingers hover after the touch, unwilling to leave. Her skin is pale beneath the firelight, soft like the earth back home—the soil I buried my heart in.
She isn’t Casandra.
But a part of me still hopes.
The tears are gone. My eyes are clear, dry. Still, something in my chest ...
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