[Pel is swept back in time to the moment Cyril's mother died. The closest thing she'd had to a real parent, breath rattling, eyes barely open, lips chapped and flaking. The breaths getting further and further apart until they simply stopped coming. Nine-year-old Pel had watched closely, somehow both in the moment and outside of it. If I watch, will I understand death, so I can stop being afraid?
She had been one of many they would bury that year, and Pel found her work load increasing as they had fewer hands to help. Margaux might have been born that year. Could Pel's nine-year-old self have imagined saving that little baby girl, when there was so much death around her already?
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She had been one of many they would bury that year, and Pel found her work load increasing as they had fewer hands to help. Margaux might have been born that year. Could Pel's nine-year-old self have imagined saving that little baby girl, when there was so much death around her already?
Softly:]
I'm sorry. We've failed you.