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miss our little talks

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They are gone, but they are not really gone. They are constantly finding reminders of them, tucked into books, hidden in alcoves, painted on walls. Emilie is thumbing through a book on blood cells, and finds a hastily scrawled note on yellowed parchment. The writing is messy, but its cramped loops are achingly familiar. Net blood cell count? Loss? The message is short, but Emilie stares at it for a good half hour, lost in thought. Eventually, she shakes her head and smiles, tucking the parchment into a pocket of her jacket.