She is singing the song, my song.
Her voice is soft and clear in the beginning, powerful, and beautiful in the chorus. Is there something that she doesn't do?
The song sounds even more beautiful in her voice, like the soft breeze in autumn that makes the fallen leaves dance, like nostalgia, and melancholy, a sweet memory, like the memory of the first kiss given with love. Like a sunset, a golden, black, and orange one, with the sun barely visible on the horizon and the moon and the stars in the sky, saying goodbye.
This instant is beautiful. This instant is perfect. This moment is everything.
My body hangs from the mechanical arms and the wires connected to me, the liquid of the capsule is gone. My wounds are healed and there are no scars to remind me that I am, still, a mortal. I wond
