[ Directions certainly would have expedited the process, but lack of guidance does little to stop him. It's a chance look upward that leads him to what he believes can only be Henry: a slumped, isolated heap of a person in morning, so distanced from those who carry about their day as though nothing had happened.
How familiar it all is. ]
Y—
[ He breathes not a sound beyond that syllable, his chest growing icy. His voice—the voice he shared with Henry's soulmate—can only bring harm.
Now only in writing can they be permitted to have any form. So he writes, his index finger drawing soft lines in the dirt: ]
no subject
How familiar it all is. ]
Y—
[ He breathes not a sound beyond that syllable, his chest growing icy. His voice—the voice he shared with Henry's soulmate—can only bring harm.
Now only in writing can they be permitted to have any form. So he writes, his index finger drawing soft lines in the dirt: ]
You don't have to say anything. I'm here. I know.