Andrew remembers it vividly, that drunken night, the night he knew his life would not be long enough to take care of Seamus, yet at the same time he was strangely relieved that soon, perhaps, he would meet his wife again.
Four-stage blood cancer, that was what the doctor had said with grave certainty.
A punishment, no doubt, for all the killings he had done, and for the Vitalis Cores inside his body devouring his blood whenever he dared to use them.
His flesh had grown weaker, his veins felt poisoned, and every breath carried the weight of time running out.
He stared at the old photo of his wife, frozen in time for more than fifteen years. She never changed, never aged like he did.
The lines on his face, the bitterness in his bones, all stood in cruel contrast to her eternal beauty.
A sigh escaped him, heavy and raw.
