She swallows. “Look, I know how it sounds but—” “I believe you.” She blinks, suddenly confused. “What?” “I believe you,” he says again. Three small words, as rare as I remember you, and it should be enough—but it’s not. Nothing makes sense, not Henry, not this; it hasn’t since the start and she’s been too afraid to ask, to know, as if knowing would bring the whole dream crashing down, but she can see the cracks in his shoulders, can feel them in her chest. Who are you? she wants to ask. Why are you different? How do you remember when no one else can? Why do you believe I made a deal? In the
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