He doesn’t do it for me. I can tell by the tensing of his shoulders. No, he does it for his Dena—my A. We fall into each other, bodies shaking with grief and anger. In his embrace, I understand how someone so rigid and stoic could only be molded by the gentlest of hands. He was drawn in by Adena’s warmth, forever imprinted on by her now-broken sewing fingers. We hold each other, strangers connected by a mutual love. And when Mak finally pulls away, his eyes rimmed with red, a streak of sunshine falls heavily over our kneeling bodies. The beam of light coats us thoroughly enough to dry the
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