“At the heart of darkness the hope of the world is dying on a cross, and the longest stride of soul is to see in this a strange glory.” Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

The time for another visit had come. She stood in the doorway once again awaiting his arrival. There in the distance the two figures moved: the king and the knight who traveled with him. A third figure, shorter than the first two moved with them. It was a child, a girl. Drawing closer, Philothea saw her hand in the hand of the knight. Clad in white and pink, Philothea knew this girl, a shadow of the girl she once possessed.

How empty her hands felt these days, as she wanted for her king to visit.

She awoke. It was only a dream. The girl was alone in her home, feeling out of place in the world.

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