Page 117 of Molt

“Because you’re the one asking.”

That destroys me.

I turn.

He looks smaller. Fragile. Human. For the first time, August looks his age. Not physically. In his eyes. One hundred and seventy-four years of losing women he thought were the same woman. And only now realizing they were never the same.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“Finding you.”

My heart breaks. “No.”

“If I’d walked away in that lobby...”

“No.”

“You’d still be Sarah.”

“August.”

“You’d have your green eye.”

“Stop.”

“Five fingers.”

“Stop.”

“Your scar.”

“STOP.”

He closes his mouth.

I grab him and pull him against me.

He resists for half a second.

Then breaks sobbing into my shoulder.

Not quiet tears. Not graceful grief. He fucking breaks. His whole body shakes. “I’m sorry.”

I hold him tighter.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know.”

“I killed all of you.”

“No.”