“Which one’s mine?” I demanded once, in the dead of night.
He laughed, a little uncomfortable.
“No, really, which ones?” I persisted; I needed something, even if it was a small thing, to call mine.
He took a deep breath, “oh, I don’t know.. that lullaby, Not the First.. and Win.. I don’t know.”
I stayed quiet, understanding that they were names and rhythms that would haunt me forever.
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