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. "He would
have done a fine job. And then you would have had a
picture of him always."
Kyra nodded sorrowfully. "Listen, let me take you for a
ride," suggested the dragon, trying to change the subject.
"It'll lift your spirits. Where would you like to go?"
"Home," she said sadly. "I'm not very good company
when I'm feeling like this."
She lay in bed for hours, unable to keep from crying.
It's been six years, she thought to herself. Why am I still
grieving? Why can't I stop?
The answer was as plain as the tears on her face:
Her love did not die in that fire. Yes, her memory was
fading, but her feelings were as strong as ever.
Finally, late that afternoon, she climbed wearily out of
bed and built a fire in order to make herself a light meal.
Later, after sitting down at her rickety wooden table to eat,
she noticed that her hands were smeared with charcoal.
Without thinking, she absently cleaned her fingers by
etching an image of her husband in charcoal on her faded
white tablecloth.
When she realized what she had done, she stopped and
stared at her work. The picture stared back at her. It wasn't a
very good likeness of Seron, but it was still undeniably him.
More than that, though, while she had been sketching, she
had sensed - for the first time in more than six years - the
peace and security she had felt in her husband's arms
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