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Nena knew, even as a child, that magic was a turn of phrase. A way that adults talked about bounty and blessings: with reverence, and perhaps a bit of fear, for when you had much, you never knew how much of it could be lost.
The hiss nearly froze him. It was sharper than a rattler’s, as angry as a cougar’s. A feral part of him, deep and black and curled at the back of his mind, knew that this was a predator, and he was prey.
When Néstor was brave or drunk enough to dream about this, he was met with blankness. An empty wall. The sweep of crinoline silk, the echo of a voice, but no face. The sensation of knowing someone was next to him. Of turning only to find the dream shattered, to realize he was utterly, achingly alone.
But the boy he used to be was long dead, along with many other precious things besides.