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Her eyes meet mine. “Yes.”

The answer comes too quickly.

My fingers press harder against my mouth.

“You mean right now?”

“I mean always.”

I stare at her.

Mercy’s expression doesn’t change.

“I remember the first winter,” she says quietly. “I remember the ground freezing around me. I remember spring coming because I could feel the roots waking.”

My skin goes cold.

“You felt that?”

“I feel all of it.”

The words barely leave her mouth.

“Every season. Every storm. Every drought. Every time they planted this field and every time they cut it down.”

She looks toward the floor. “I heard people walking above me.”

Jesus Christ.

“I heard children become parents. I heard their children grow old. I learned which year it was by the voices that disappeared.”

My eyes burn.

“Mercy…”

“I did not sleep, Sage.”

Her gaze returns to mine.

“I did not dream.”

A long silence passes between us.

“I waited.”

Two hundred and thirty-five years.

Not dead.

Not unconscious.

Waiting.

And suddenly immortality sounds a hell of a lot more like torture.

“Why?”

“Because they never finished replacing me.”