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When she comes back, she finds she has black fingers and can no longer get on her feet. She does anyway.

Whatever it was to break the silence — and it sounds so loud now, this timeless thing that shrieks and cracks to pieces — it is gone, and not without her. It has brought her whole being along, except for those few memories, scattered all over the floor.

She collects them, like her last glimpse of life. Airy limbs can still move, and she decides — she is not done and she will not leave yet.

She lets the body fall in her arms, knowing she cannot follow. It is only fair to give back freedom, a gift, to the only one who had it from the start — for she knows know, without doubts and mistakes, that she never had anything but this place. 

With her nature she has to fall apart — with the dark hue that haunted her, gave her nightmares, and still holds all of her. She flows to it, once pure rain and a river, to get lost again in the sea.

And what he brought along is not hers, it never was. It came and went, like sunlight in the clouds, something she has already lost. The same warmth his small hand had is leaving in his sleep — not a chance, for either, to cling to it.

She just cradles him to safety. Only then, when he is gone in peace, she waits for her own night; for the force that holds her bones together is lime and bricks, tiles, brazen chains and iron. It will burn within her, dissolve her, until she melts in cinders.

Her only relief has to lie there — in the fresh water, with its white glimpses, and in the light she always longed to meet. At least, from there she can still see the rain. The frame of a small boat greets her sight, peaceful, already far away.

So she kneels in the sea, and lets it go.