Silence fills the empty grave1/20/2023 The bone-deep sadness, kept at bay the last few minutes by the stranger’s easy company, now rushes back. “I don’t believe in devils,” he says, rising to his feet. He’s had them once or twice before, a consequence of aggressive self-medication. He stares at the stranger, still dry despite the storm, a devil’s beauty in a familiar face, and those eyes, suddenly more serpentine, and Henry knows this for what it is: a waking dream. “I am the one who sees kindling and coaxes it to flame. But it has been a long time since any of them felt like more than stories. Hell, Henry spent the first two-thirds of his life studying scripture, and he grew up on a steady diet of Blake, Milton, and Faust. He works at a bookstore, has read enough epics, devoured the allegories and myths. The stranger reaches out and rests his hand against Henry’s sternum.įor an instant, Henry thinks the stranger wants his heart, as broken as it is-and then he understands. The dark flicker of a smile plays across the stranger’s face.
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