Page 67 of Molt

“Lenora.”

“You want to want me away.”

He laughs once. Quiet. Almost bitter. “You’re irritating in every lifetime.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me something.”

“Why?”

“Because every version of me you talk about sounds like me but isn’t me.”

His expression shifts. “She was.”

“Not to me.”

I swallow. “I don’t remember being her.”

That lands. I see it.

His eyes soften.

“Tell me something good.”

He hesitates.

“Please.”

August looks away. “1921.”

I wait.

“You hated dancing.”

“I still hate dancing.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I watched you refuse every invitation at your friend’s wedding three months ago.”

My mouth falls open. “You were there?”

“Across the street.”

“That’s creepy as hell.”

“Extremely.”

“Continue.”

He smiles. Just a little. “You hated dancing. But you loved music.”

“Okay.”