"It’s time," Elara said, her voice a dry rasp. She held up her arm. The threads there were pulsed with a faint, sickly violet light—the color of a bruise that refuses to heal.
He pointed to a single, golden strand woven into the dark mess near their palms. It was the memory of a summer in a city that no longer existed, a moment of pure, unburdened laughter. the suffering ties that bind endings
