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I missed him before I was even gone, a kind of preemptive grief I’d grown accustomed to over the last several centuries. In a futile attempt at self-preservation, my mind rehearsed loss before death closed its fingers, as though practicing it would lessen the blow. It never did.
my love for them never felt spread thin. Rather, it felt like a muscle, strengthened from centuries of purposeful use.
Such a simple thing, it would be, to bicker over what to eat for dinner. Such an ordinary pleasure so many took for granted.
