All the breath leaves my lungs as I stare at the delicate flower, its stem wrapped in a wide yellow silk ribbon embroidered with gold. “I never told you,” he whispers in my ear, “that I was always your biggest fan. I still am.” “Mikhail?” I utter, my eyes still focused on the flower. “There was a poster I saw one evening—I think it was in a shop window—almost a year ago. I remember walking past it, and then retracing my steps to take a better look at the image. It showed a group of dancers. All except one were wearing yellow costumes, and as I regarded them, I wondered why, among all of them,
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