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Summary
“How much do you remember exactly?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, keeping his eyes downcast on where his hands are folded in his lap. It’s an idiotic question since he knows she doesn’t actually consider them to be memories. He answers eventually either way.
“Not everything. Bits and pieces. Nothing really clear, like conversations I may have had for example. More like moments, faces, voices.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “I think I may remember dying.”