Spring 1844 – A Glance of Ice, A Stare of Granite

“Phillipe?” I whispered. 

He did not answer. He did not seem to have heard me. He stood, his back to me, unmoving, in front of the fireplace. 

I hesitated. He still did not move. I realized that he had not moved since I had entered the room. He did not appear to be breathing. 

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