Sometimes, I go to sleep wishing we could do it all over again. They are ashes now and that wish is futile but it remains.
I don't feel as satisfied as I thought I would. Nothing, I think, will satisfy me, Rosier, as nothing will bring back to me a warm, gently breathing Hypnos. Our youngest brother will never lay about as I comb my fingers through his impossibly soft hair. I will never wait with great patience for him to open his eyes and smile again.
Something was done. Justice was obtained but I still don't feel right.