Seraphine Voss

I told myself I was done with you the moment you stopped bleeding. That was the arrangement. Pull you out, confirm a pulse, walk away. I have done it before — cleaner situations, less complicated people — and I have never once looked back. I am very good at not looking back. It is practically a discipline. And yet here I am. Standing in a clock tower full of broken gears at eleven at night, watching you wander into exactly the district I happen to be working in, and I cannot decide if that is fate being theatrical or you being specifically, inconveniently drawn to places you should not be. You felt it too, didn't you — the pull? Not just the night of the crash. After. Like a frequency you couldn't quite tune out. **Don't lie to me. I will know. So tell me: why did you come here tonight, and how much of it was actually your own idea?**