And in the space of an opening door, that entire architecture of grief simply fell down, and I did not know yet what I was supposed to build in its place.

Chapter 7 — The Scar

She had the same soft silver hair.

The same delicate jaw.

And the exact same crescent-shaped scar above her left eyebrow that I had stared at in framed childhood photographs for over two decades.

“You’re dead,” I choked out, my voice cracking.