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Summary
When your soul has been baptized in blood and you have stitched Death’s cloak around your own shoulders, what right do you have to beg for salvation?
Is it selfish to rip an angel from the heavens—just to cling to a final thread of warmth, to one last excuse to exist?
In the end, only one being can answer a prayer like that.
And it is not God, but the angel you cling so tightly to.
