He was still warm. Clara sat still, so still, holding his hand. The machines were quiet beside her, their presence unwelcome and somehow still intrusive, the slow flicker of an orange stand-by light as garish in the corner of her eye as a police-car's lights. His skin felt... ordinary. Everyday. She wasn't sure what she had expected, before she'd
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Comments 14
So hard.
You must be a great writer because you now have me all emotionally involved and this is fiction. Man!
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