All We Have Is Time

52. July 19, 1960 En route to Paris, France

She’s been cut open again.

At least, that’s what it feels like. Sobs rack her body, centuries of rage and betrayal and grief flooding her banks. Oliver holds her close and lets her cry.

How could William think a branch would cut as cleanly as a blade?

How could her parents believe sending her away was the answer?

How could the village think she was the monstrous one?

Because it was easier for everyone never to face the truth.

Even her.