And then the laughter dried up in her throat as she watched him: the petals, the arch, the black cloth, the snow, the door, the black cloak. She had seen this before, a thousand times before, endlessly rooted in this same spot, no snow or petal touching her skin, no door opening at her touch, forever abandoned in the desiccated garden like a rotted-out husk. “Oberon,” she murmured, the name tumbling out of her mouth like a stolen jewel. The ancient thing in the three-piece suit tilted his head, his features stark, and then something in the line of his powerful shoulders softened. “Steady,” he
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The way these moments keep happening are truely cinematic. I can see it all moving in slow motion but my heart is racing.
