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He must be losing his mind. They say some people go mad with grief, that their minds shatter under the heavy burden of loss.
The wind always smells of Griffith, now, and sometimes it carries his voice, calling his name, laughing, singing. Other times, he sees something in the corner of his eye, a flash of bright white, but when he turns his head, it disappears.
He wonders if these are the first cracks in his mind.Written for GriffGuts Weekend 2024. Day 3 | Asphodel: death and mourning.
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