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May 7, 2007
It was that dream again. The one that woke him with a start, his fingers stretching to grab her shirt before she slipped. It was always that. He saw her slip. But he knew she fell. The look on her face as she turned away, the clear light in her eyes, wind wrapping hair around her neck, her shirt billowing as the draft whipped from below. He could smell the lilacs. It was the same. His room was stuffy, dark and his blanket kicked to the floor. His arm ached and he sat up, flexing his fingers, thinking of her.