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... more, only spirals. Light bled from the trees themselves. They bathed Spira in love, not as parents to a child, but as creators to a creation.
Spira did not hunger, did not tire, but drank in affection like light. It danced with them, curled against them, and when Lucy offered her breast, Spira leaned in - not to feed, but to rest. The act itself lit Lucy from within, her skin blooming with golden blossoms that spread across her collarbone and shoulder.
"This is only the beginnin ...
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