The world is a shimmery silver.
My legs are draped in my cool liquid sheets, the breeze from my half-open window caresses my features.
The moon outside my window is a real-life watercolor painting: its paleness has overflowed, dying the rest of the sky a pale lavender.
There's a momentary change in the quality of light: it's brighter for a second, then back to normal. It could be my imagination, but it could be someone standing outside my house, flicking a flashlight. Our old signal.
I stand up and peer out the window, nearly allowing myself to hope.
But of course, no one's there.
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