And here I am in Toronto, beneath the incandescent bulbs of some wretched little café, turning my eyes away from the night sky. Mithras will come soon, that bringer of light, to herald the dawn and the end of our suffering; that I know. But for now, there’s only darkness, the nothingness of November, and the creeping death of winter. If only I could be like you, Soraya. I don’t want to be like common people and cry like they do; I don’t want to cry over cold Americanos in my torn blue jeans. I want to cry like you, Principessa. I want to cry like Soraya. For what, though? My tears wouldn’t change anything, or bring any of you back. What could they ever do? ‘Dir shodeh,joonam’, I can hear you saying, swallowing the bitterness of it all. ‘It’s too late, my dear …’

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