rested there, limp. Both of them stared at Gamache, and he looked at them. “I’m very sorry to have to bring you this news,” he said, knowing how weak it sounded but also knowing to not say it would be even worse. Madame and Monsieur Dyson were gone now. They’d crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn’t. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs. And they knew something the rest didn’t. They knew how lucky
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