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    Summary

    Six months ago, Caroline had thrown his name at the dark like a spear and fled. She’d let the bold, broken letters of him bleed from red to black to gone against the fabric of her retreating back, her doubts muffled by the sound of her scurrying feet as she’d taken off with nothing— except a mouthful of forevers.

    “You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.”—Letters to Milena, Franz Kafka

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