“It was my life,” muffled a little by the press of her, her fingers curling fitfully into the sleeve beneath her hand. “I—dreamed. Remembered. Everything that happened, after, that would have happened, when I was—our lives continue without us,” a little, hiccoughing laugh, devoid of mirth or warmth.

“My life, without me. A whole life without any of this.”

I dreamed makes it sound like it could be something lovely; it is only ugliness written in the voice that shape the words.

“He killed me,” she repeats, so much quieter. “He took my child from me—all of it for naught—”