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... his last meal. He knows it too. He just parts his lips enough for me to put the spoon through.
He looks like a corpse.
I drop the spoon and the loud clang startles us both. "You do not have to go."
He raises his eyes from the untiled ground and amber eyes--much like mine--lacking fire meet mine. He starts to speak, and my throat starts to hurt when no words come.
He is unable to speak. Not since the illness took him. His face contorts as he tries to make words, an ...
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