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... Deep, purple-black tendrils danced inside it, as if reacting to a different note in the melody. A counterpoint. An anchor.
Emma touched the moss with her fingers. It welcomed her. Soft, warm, pulsing.
"I don’t know if I want this," she whispered.
Rose sat up, her hair cascading down her back. "Then offer what you do want."
Emma’s lips parted. Her breath came slow. She sat down, legs folded beneath her. "I want to stay awake. I want to remember who I was before. I ...
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