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She thought, too, about how she’d read somewhere that the only language that had a word for existences, lives such as theirs, was Romany. Detlene, they called them. The wandering souls of miscarried or stillborn
children. Those who had undeniably lived but only within their mother.
We must pursue what’s in front of us, not what we can’t have or what we have lost. We must grasp what we can reach and hold on, fast.
