“I don’t really hate your singing,” she confessed, her voice barely audible. “Just . . . it reminds me of the things we can’t have . . . I loved you, and I hated that.” Cynn’s chest shook one more time, and she gasped for air. “I know, Cinnamon,” Wyckett whispered back, holding her head gently. “I know.” But Cynn could no longer hear him.
