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Another failure. Another regret. Another friendship brutally ended. The tragic loss of life that follows in my wake from decade to decade. I am well-acquainted with sorrow.

Doyle left nothing of himself except grief, which breathes like any mortal thing, rushing in to fill the vacuum of his absence. I'm choked by the bitterness of his death. It swallows me and I drown. Like a giant hand, it presses me into the earth. I have no energy to fight, nor even the willpower. It's a thing unseen and yet somehow tangible.

"Grief is like that sometimes. It's mostly silent and heavy, like the first fall of snow, and eventually it leaves you, but not before eroding parts of your spirit that may never grow back."

A friend told me that a long time ago, and I understand her words now better than I ever did.

I tried losing the memory to sleep, to forget that I remembered, to dream that I forgot, but the pain wouldn't let me rest. So here I sit "in the dead vast and middle of the night."

Earlier I found myself praying. A vampire with a soul praying for the soul of a half-demon.

Oh God. I wonder if He still listens. And if He does, do I have the right to expect an answer?

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