Realization sinks into me like a knife. “Ophelia—” She fits so much emotion in four tiny letters. “Don’t.” “How long ago?” I can’t see her face through her hair. “Four years.” Four years. She was sixteen or seventeen. A giant lump of emotion clogs my throat. “Fuck, Ophelia.” She turns away, filling a plastic kettle and putting it on to boil. “Please just don’t.” “Have you been alone here for twenty-four days?” “I’ve been alone here for four years,” she whispers, putting two tea bags in two mugs. “Sorrowsong was the first time I’d left this town since…since it happened.”
