It blossomed within her, slow, and gentle, a nearly beautiful thing. It was kind, willing to take its time, until the tremors that rocked her fingers, and the battered phone in her hand, had spread to her arms. She was afraid. Terrified, really, with the way she could feel it eating its way from within her. What was this thing that locked her limbs in place, and crawled through her chest, waiting for the tears to fall? Had it known? Was it familiar with the notion that she had held dear to; cultivated with near manic precision, and sharp determination? She wasn’t sure. She, herself, was not specially familiar with this particular sentiment, and were it not for Lacrimosa, biting coldly at her ears, it would soon be forgotten.


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