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Claudia is dead. Here is her dress – he holds it up to the light. She is dead. Here are her words – he reads them until he knows them, each one carved jagged into his heart, his eyes, his mouth. But still, she is dead. Dust on his tongue when he speaks it: Claudia is dead. It pounds in his head, again and again – she is dead, she is dead, she is dead. This is all there is to her now. This is all there is to him now. Claudia is dead. This grief will never end. He buries it, unburies it, holds it up to the light, examines it, speaks it, and still it remains, remains, remains. No remains, only ash turned to ash twice over. She is dead.
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