She could hear death calling to her, whispering that it could take away the pain, take away the last shreds of what remained to her. It was the urge to walk back into the cave and follow Isolde; it was the fungus growing from Jennie Mercer’s face, growing from the rot in her heart where her mother had been. She fought against it out of reflex and stubbornness, struggling to remember what was still dragging her forward. The surface. The sun. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t real anymore. What was sunlight to the desaturated lines of her readout, to the engulfing darkness beyond? What was open air
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