Mindaugas Mozūras

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Radana died because of me. The certainty of it overwhelmed me now, as I remembered all those times I had wished she too would have polio so that we would be the same. Now she was dead. I hadn’t loved her as completely as I myself had been loved, and even though I’d vowed I would, it was too late. Death had already dug a hole in the ground and set its trap.
In the Shadow of the Banyan
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