The Twelve (The Passage, #2)

by Justin Cronin

Strange how one minute life was a certain way and then it was another, and you couldn’t remember what you’d done to make it all happen.

“That’s the worst part, really, when you think about it. Try as you might, nobody will ever truly know who you are. You’re just somebody alone in a house with your thoughts and nothing else.”

The story was never the story, and it surprised you, how much another person could carry.

It was in the waiting that a person experienced too much of himself. Memories, doubts, regrets, anxieties, the whole range of possibilities the future contained—they all swirled together in the mind like a soup.

The feeling came upon him in a rush of love: This is why I’m here.

Perhaps it was real, in some alternate sense of the word. What, after all, was “real”?

“Because that’s what heaven is,” said Amy. “It’s opening the door of a house in twilight and everyone you love is there.”