Читать книгу The Season To Sin - Clare Connelly - Страница 8

I DREAMED OF her again last night. Of how she’d been on that last morning, her pale face blotchy from tears, her eyes holding apologies and lies, begging me to forgive her.

How could I, though?

She was leaving me. Just like everyone else.

I dreamed of my foster mother Julianne, and the dream was so real that in it I was able to reach out and hug her, to fall into her hug, to smile at her. To pull back through time and space and change the way the day had actually unfolded—to undo the way I had shouted at her and shoved her when she’d tried to draw me close.

In my dream I didn’t swear at her.

In my dream I didn’t refuse to go near.

It was just a dream, though: powerful enough to drag me from my fitful sleep, but futile in allowing me to change the past.

The past is a part of me and there is no escaping that.