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Summary
It’s been three years, seven months, and ten days.
The March sky is characteristically grey, promising a day of rain. Dirty snow still clings to the Zurich streets, and the light drizzle coats the city in a permeating fog.
She’s blonder than Cristina remembers. Her hair is a little shorter, and she’s wearing a sharp cobalt dress under her white coat instead of navy scrubs. Nevertheless, her presence is like being hit by a brick; sudden and somehow still painful.