“Hello, Sam,” she breathed onto the river breeze. She said nothing for a time, content to be near him, even in this form. The sun warmed her hair, a kiss of heat along her scalp. A trace of Mala, perhaps, even here. She began talking, quietly and succinctly, telling Sam about what had happened to her ten years ago, telling him about these past nine months. When she was done, she stared up at the oak leaves rustling overhead and dragged her fingers through the soft grass. “I miss you,” she said. “Every day, I miss you. And I wonder what you would have made of all this. Made of me. I think—I
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