“Don’t worry,” Marya whispered, kissing his forehead. “My old bones will follow yours soon enough.
And if they thought her aimless, if they thought her a bit mad, let them. It meant they left her alone. Marya was not aimless, anyway. She was thinking.
Marya pinned out her childhood like a butterfly. She considered it the way a mathematician considers an equation.
How I adore you, Marya. How well I chose. Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me.
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