“When the sun sets, listen for the symphony that rises from the lake. You should recognise that operatic, croaking swell. A tale you’ve certainly been told before.”
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The flame dances in front of that last photo, distorting his smile. The corner catches and burns. The curling blackness consumes me first, eating at my unhappy face until I don’t have to look at it anymore. My shoulders relax.
But it keeps going. It takes my brother, too, and our out-of-focus parents hovering in the background. It goes and goes until there’s nothing left to hold.