I write a note with shaking, old hands. I start the spell.
The dying child is so young. She deserves as many long years as I have seen. Memory drains away as I give her all but seven of them.
I don’t remember who wrote the note in my shaking, young hands.
She does.
Copyright © 2018 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
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Nice one, Jason. Just a bit of mystery to keep me wanting more. :-)
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Thank you, Diana. The end product is more mysterious than I first planned it to be, but that was a good thing.
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Gave me chills.
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