Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

“One can be alone without feeling lonely,” she muses. “One can feel lonely without being alone.”

and if the widow’s blood was bread, then this is wine.

“Bury my bones in the midnight soil,” he begins, infusing the words with the air of theater. “Plant them shallow and water them deep. And in my place will grow a feral rose.” He leans down to Renata and cups her face, running a thumb across her bottom lip. “Soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.”

“Is it life,” he counters, “if there is never death to balance it? Or is its brevity what makes it beautiful?”

What is the point, she thinks, of loving something you are doomed to lose? Of holding on to someone who cannot hold on to you?

Some people keep their heart tucked so deep, they hardly know it’s there. But you have always worn it like a second skin. It will make your life harder. But it will also make it beautiful.

“No one should play God. Least of all us.”