When he finished, the boy drew back and folded his fingers together. “I know how it feels,” he said quietly. “I know how it feels to have everything taken from you. And I know how difficult it is…to continue to live.” She looked up at him then, arms wrapped tightly around herself. There was nothing of the foreign, ancient blackness to his eyes as he gazed back, face marshaled and restrained. There was no kindness either, only a hard, bladed empathy.
